I 


o 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


? 

140 


. 

THE  PARTINGTON   FAAilLV 


MRS.  PARTINGTOFS 

« 

KNITTING-WORK; 

AND 

WHAT  WAS  DONE  BY  HER  PLAGUY  BOY  IKE. 

A  WEB  OF  MANY  TEXTURES, 

AS  WROUGHT   BY   THE    OLD    LADY   HERSELF. 
(B.  P.  SHILLABEK.) 

TOft  (£1wwtfen$tit  gUutf  wiim*  Jnj  Ifoppitt, 


"Various,  that  the  mind  of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change,  and 
pleased  w-th  novelty,  may  be  indulged.' 


PHILADELPHIA: 
JOHN  E.  POTTER  AND  COMPANY, 

No.  617  SANSOM  STREET. 


Eii'.eiod  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 
JOHN  E.  POTTER  AND  COMPANY. 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania 


'f* 


PREFACE. 


THE  author  of  the  present  volume,  while  preparing  it  for  publi- 
cation, has  been  impressed  with  a  due  regard  of  its  destined  benefit 
to  the  world  —  and  to  himself — and,  while  thus  obtruding  himself, 
like  a  fist,  into  the  public  eye,  ****** 


To  THE  PUBLISHERS. 

GENTLEMEN  :  It  has  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  a  preface  is 
altogether  unnecessary,  and,  therefore,  I  positively  decline  writing 
one,  inasmuch  as  I  have  commenced  five  already,  and  been  com- 
pelled to  abandon  them  all,  from  sheer  inability  to  complete  them. 
Prefaces  have  always  seemed  to  me  like  drummers  for  a  show, 
calling  upon  people  to  "  come  up  and  see  the  elephant,"  with  a 
slight  exaggeration  of  the  merit  of  the  animal  to  be  exhibited  ;  and 
though,  in  the  present  case,  such  enlargement  of  the  fact  would 
not  be  necessary,  still  those  disposed  to  be  captious  might  read  our 
promises  with  incredulity.  Mrs.  Partington,  no  less  than  the  Roman 
dame,  should  be  above  suspicion  ;  therefore,  this  heralding  should  be 
avoided,  and  her  name  left  with  only  its  olden  reputation  resting 
about  it,  like  the  halo  of  cobweb  and  dust  about  an  ancient  vintage 
of  port.  Her  coadjutors,  Dr.  Spooner,  Old  Roger,  and  Wideswarth, 
representing  the  profound,  the  jolly,  and  the  sentimental,  need  no 
endorsement  among  the  enlightened  many  who  will  buy  this  book  ; 
and  we  can  safely  leave  them,  as  lawyers  sometimes  do  their  cases 
•yvlieu  they  have  nothing  to  say,  without  argument.  Again,  all  will 

1762447 


IV  PREFACE. 

Bee  for  themselves  the  acid  and  sugar,  and  spirit  and  water,  com- 
prised in  the  contents  of  the  volume,  —  forming  the  components  of  a 
sort  of  intellectual  punch,  of  which  they  can  partake  to  any  extent, 
without  headache  or  heartache,  as  the  sedate  therein  forms  a  judi- 
cious corrective  of  the  eccentric  and  gay  which  might  intoxicate. 
The  illustrations,  by  Hoppin,  tell  their  own  story,  and  need  no 
further  commendation  than  their  great  excellence.  The  local 
meaning  of  many  of  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  book  will,  of 
course,  be  readily  understood,  without  explanation  or  apology ;  and 
the  new  matter  will  be  distinguished  from  the  old,  by  the  quality  of 
novelty  that  generally  attaches  to  that  with  which  we  are  not  famil- 
iar. I  thought  somewhat  of  giving  the  name  beneath  each  individ- 
ual represented  in  our  frontispiece  ;  but  the  idea  was  dispelled  in  a 
moment,  by  the  reflection  that  Mrs.  Partington  —  the  central  sun  of 
our  social  system  —  could  not  be  misinterpreted ;  while  Dr.  Spooner, 
Prof.  Wideswarth,  Old  Rogej,  and  Ike,  were  equally  well  defined ; 
and  the  skill  of  the  artist  in  depicting  them  needed  no  aid.  There- 
fore, all  things  considered,  I  think  we  had  better  let  the  book  slip 
from  its  dock  quietly,  and  drift  out  into  the  tide  of  publication,  to 
be  borne  by  this  or  that  eddy  of  feeling  to  such  success  as  it  may 
deserve,  without  the  formality  of  prefatory  bottle-breaking.  I  leave 
the  matter,  then,  as  a  settled  thing,  that  we  will  not  have  a  preface. 
Resolutely  yours, 

THE  AUTHOR. 

NOTE  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS.  —  There  is  an  axiom  which  says  that 
one  needs  must  submit  when  a  certain  character  drives  ;  and  hence 
we  acquiesce,  deeming  that  if  a  preface  cannot  be  had,  we  will  do 
without  it. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE, 9 

Autumn, 33 

Twenty  Years  Married, 34 

Whole-souled  Fellows, 36 

Behind  the  Scenes, 37 

Woman's  Sovereignty, 38 

Pets, 39 

By  Chance, 40 

Mrs.  Partington  and  the  Russian  Helmet, 41 

Who  is  Vile  ? 42 

The  Household  Ghost,      43 

Mrs.  Partington  Patriotic, 44 

Weaning  the  Baby, 45 

Home  Music, 45 

Mrs.  Partington  at  the  Ballet, 48 

Flowers, 48 

Involuntary, ...49 

Signs  of  Fall, 50 

Ike's  Spring  Medicine, 51 

Parting,      52 

Assimilation, 53 

Comparison, 54 

Malapropos, 54 

Mrs.  Partington  on  Surprise  Parties, 55 

Individuality, 56 

Misapprehension,      57 

Home  Music, 58 

Harvest  Hymn, 59 

Mrs.  Partington  on  Horticulture, 60 

A  Bit  of  Nonsense, 01 

Character, .62 

Self-Respect,      62 

Love, 63 

Frenchman's  Lane, 64 

The  First  Suit, •. 66 

Moral  Tendency, 67 

Sympathy  with  Rascals, 68 

Organic,      69 

Scratching  for  a  Living,      70 

Odorless  Roses, • 70 

THE  pRiiaiARu  HEIRS,     7i 

1*  (v) 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Pig* 

Don't  Fret, 10 

The  Dicky, 102 

Heathenish, 1° 

Bringing  up  Children, 1° 

Unmet  Confidence, 1° 

The  Dead  Sailor, 1° 

The  Coolies, 109 

Talking  Horse, HO 

Pictures, 11 

The  Ocean, 112 

Fatality, 11 

A  Serious  Call, 113 

The  Baron  of  Boston, 1H 

Swearing, 115 

The  Priina  Donna, 116 

Misanthropy, •    •  117 

Measuring  Love, 11 

Plebeian  Pretension,      . 119 

The  Franklin  Statue, 120 

A  Way  to  be  Happy,      121 

New  England's  Lion,      122 

Unnatural  Fathers, 122 

A  Difficulty, 124 

Love, 124 

Heirlooms, 125 

Don't  Look  Back, 126 

Good  Resolutions, 127 

Mrs.  Partington  on  Music, 128 

Sacrilegious, 129 

An  Old  Fable  Modernized, 130 

Robert  Burns, 133 

The  Knocking  at  the  Gate, 135 

Mrs.  Partington  and  Ike,      137 

Cold  Weather, 138 

An  Analogy, 139 

Nahant, 140 

Number  One  Hundred  and  One, 141 

Contentment, 146 

The  Old  Piano, 147 

Ike  at  Church, 148 

Sounds  of  the  Summer  Night,      149 

The  Household  Shadow, 150 

Character, 151 

A  Leaf  from  a  Record, 152 

The  Cable, 154 

A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE, 155 

A  Courting  Reminiscence, ll,g 

Fidgety  People, 170 

The  Philistines  be  upon  Thee, ]71 

Mrs.  Partington  on  Intemperance, .172 

Mrs.  Partington  and  the  Telegraph, 172 

Great  and  Little  Struggles, 173 

Died  of  Cramp, .174 

Cosmetics, .  178 

A  Tale  with  a  Moral, !!!!!!  !  179 

Electro-Chemical  Baths, !  181 

True  Courage, *  jg2 

My  Grandmother, ..........!  *  183 


CONTENTS.  VII 

Page 

The  Mill-Brook,     188 

Damaged  Goods, ................  189 

The  Spirit  of  Seventy-Six, 190 

Ike  Partington  and  Pugilism, 192 

The  Old  South  Bell, 194 

The  Fulses 195 

Hard  Times, 1  '.Hi 

A  Night  off  Point  Judith, 197 

Letter  Writing, 197 

Sympathy, 199 

Sea-Air 200 

An  Odd  Fellow's  Funeral, 201 

The  Courts, 202 

Sick  of  It, 204 

Look  Up,      205 

A  DOMESTIC  STORY, 206 

An  Inner  Shrine, 216 

Constant  Dropping  Wears, 217 

Emulation, 218 

Partingtunian  Wisdom, 219 

A  Cup  of  Tea, 220 

CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS, 223 

Higher,     ....  * 260 

Keveries 261 

Old  and  Young, 262 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 263 

The  Model  Husband,      265 

Sonnet  to  Pan, 267 

Illustrative  Pantomime, 268 

On  the  Mississippi, : 269 

Mrs.  Partington  at  Saratoga, 270 

A  Picture, 271 

Job  a  Drummer, 272 

A  Slight  Misconception, 273 

Story  of  Frazer's  liiver, 274 

Habits 277 

Checkers 278 

Grammar, 278 

Feeling, 279 

An  Impostor, 279 

Mesmerism  and  Matrimony, 280 

The  Old  North  Mill-Pond, 285 

The  True  Philosophy, 287 

A  Classic, 289 

Be  Contented, 292 

Whist, 293 

To  a  Heel-Tap, 295 

Oysters, 296 

California  Tan 298 

A  Gouty  Man's  Reverie, 299 

Ike  and  Lion,      300 

On  a  Child's  Picture, 302 

Wearing  Ornaments, 303 

Operatic 303 

A  Narrow  Escape, 304 

The  World, 306 

Niagara  Falls,    .' 307 

Ballad  about  Bunker, 308 


VIII  CONTENTS. 


Attending  the  Anniversaries,  ....................  309 

The  Country  Ride,    ........................  31 

Economy,     ........  ........   .•••••••••••31 

Life's  Mnsquerade,     ........   ..   ..............  31 

Mrs.  Partington  Philosophizing,     ..................  319 

Luck,    .......   .......................  320 

On  such  a  Night  as  this,   ......   ............... 

The  Reason,     .........................  323 

The  Banker's  Dream,     .......................  324 

Sea-Sickness,    ........   ......   ......   .......  326 

How  Curious  it  is,  .......................  328 

Earth  Speaketh  to  Earth,    ....................  329 

Without  a  Speck,    .........................  330 

Forced  Obedience,  .....    ......   ..        .....   ......  331 

A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES,      .....................   ..  332 

Mount  Washington,    ........................  353 

Albuminous,    .............   .   .....    ........  ii  ">  I 

Parted  Ties,      ...........................  3.'>7 

Unconditional  Cheerfulness,     ....................  358 

Mrs.  Partington  grows  Desultory,   ..........   .   .......  359 

Emblematic,     .............   .   .............  359 

A  NIGHT  OF  IT,     .......................   .  3CO 

The  Preacher  and  the  Children,  ..................  309 

Out  West,     ............................  370 

Conscience,  ...............   .   ............  370 

Babies,      .....................        .......  371 

Agricultural,    .......   ....................  372 

Mrs.  Partington  and  Patent  Medicines,    ......   ...   ......  373 

Song  of  Chelsea  Ferry,     ......................  374 

Mr.  Blifkins'  Baby,  ........................  375 

Patience,  ......................   .   ......  377 

IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL,     ........   .....   .....  378 

Mrs.  Sled  put  out,     ........................  388 

Tale  of  a  Horse,     ............   .   ............  389 

Mrs.  Partington  on  the  Currency,    .....   .............  392 

A  Fourth  of  July  Incident,     ......   .....   .........  3'.)3 

Scratched  Gneiss  and  Bear  Skin,     .........   .......    ..  3a4 

Watering-Places,    .........   .   .....   .   ........  395 

Hezekiah  and  Ruth,  .......................  39G 

Burglars  in  the  Partington  Mansion,     .   ...........   ....  398 

A  Text  Applied,     .....   ......   ..............  400 

Justly  Critical,    ........   .   ......   ....   .......  401 

Starry,  ...........................   "    .   .  401 

Birth-Day  of  Lafayette,       .....................  402 

Croaking,      .................        ..........  403 

Heathen  Sympathy,    .....   ......   .........   ....  404 

Whitewashing,    .....   ...   ..............  .  4Q5 

Prospective  Summer,    .  ...............       ^  .  ,  407 


THE   GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE. 

WHEN  MRS.  PARTINGTON  first  moved  from  Beanvillo, 
and  the  young  scion  of  the  Partington  stock  was 
exposed  to  the  temptations  of  city  life  and  city  associ- 
ations, it  was  thought  advisable  to  appoint  a  "  guar- 
deen '"  over  him.  Ike  was  not  a  bad  boy,  in  the  wicked 
sense  of  the  word  bad ;  but  he  had  a  constant  proclivity 
for  tormenting  every  one  that  he  came  in  contact  with ; 
a  resistless  tendency  for  having  a  hand  in  everything 
that  was  going  on  ;  a  mischievous  bent,  that  led  him  into 
continual  trouble,  that  brought  on  him  reproaches  from 
all  sides,  and  secured  for  him  a  reputation  that  made 
him  answerable  for  everything  of  a  wrong  character 
that  was  done  in  the  neighborhood.  A  barber's  pole 
could  not  be  removed  from  the  barber's  door  and  placed 
beside  the  broker's,  but  it  must  be  imputed  to  "  that 
plaguy  Ike ;  "  all  clandestine  pulls  at  door-bells  in  the 
evenings  were  done  by  "  that  plaguy  Ike ;  "  if  a  ball  or 
an  arrow  made  a  mistake  and  dashed  through  a  window, 
the  ball  or  the  arrow  belonged  to  "  that  plaguy  Ike; "  if 
on  April  Fool's  day  a  piece  of  paper  were  found  pasted 
on  a  door-step,  putting  grave  housekeepers  to  the  trou- 
ble and  mortification  of  trying  to  pick  up  an  imagined 
letter,  the  blame  was  laid  to  "  that  plaguy  Ike ; "  and  if  a 
voice  was  heard  from  round  the  corner  crying  "April 
Fool ! "  or  "  sold,"  those  who  heard  it  said,  at  once,  it 
was  "  that  plaguy  Ike's."  Many  a  thing  he  had  thus  to 


10  THE    GUAEDIAN    FOR  IKE. 

answer  for  that  he  did  n't  do,  as  well  as  many  that  he 
did,  until  Mrs.  Partingtoii  became  convinced  of  the 
necessity  of  securing  some  one  to  look  after  him  besides 
herself. 

In  her  exigency  she  bethought  her  of  an  old  friend 
named  Roger,  who,  because  he  was  a  single  man,  and 
had  got  along  beyond  the  meridian  of  life,  was  called 
"  Old  Roger  "  by  every  one.  He  had  lived  in  the  city 
for  many  years  and  knew  all  its  ways,  and  was  just  the 
one  for  the  proposed  station.  He  was  "  well  off,"  as 
the  world  understands  it,  and  was  a  very  genial  man, 
though  rather  hasty  in  temper,  at  times.  She  sent  for 
him  as  she  had  proposed,  and  appointed  a  day  for  his 
calling  upon  her.  On  the  afternoon  that  she  had  named 
for  the  visit,  she  and  Ike  were  together  in  the  little  sit- 
ting-room, with  the  antique  buffet  in  one  corner,  and 
the  old  chairs  and  tables  arranged  around,  the  walls 
hung  with  pictures  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  and  tho 
Prodigal  Son,  and  David  and  Goliath,  —  which  last  Ike 
admired  the  most,  because  he  always  fancied  himself  to 
be  David,  and  Goliath  a  big  butcher  down  street  who 
had  once  set  a  dog  at  him,  on  whom  he  wished  to 
avenge  himself,  and  thought  he  could  if  there  was  n't  a 
a  law  against  "  slinging  stones."  The  profile  of  Paul 
Partington,  Corporal  of  the  Bloody  'Leventh,  was  con- 
spicuous over  the  mantelpiece,  while  above  it,  sup- 
ported by  two  nails,  rested  and  rusted  the  Corporal's 
artillery  sword,  that  had  flashed  so  oft,  in  the  olden  time, 
over  the  ensanguined  muster-field.  She  was  engaged 
with  her  knitting,  while  the  object  of  her  solicitude  was 
busy  in  a  corner  engaged  in  painting  a  sky-blue  horse 
on  the  bottom  of  the  old  lady's  best  japanned  waiter 
As  she  mused,  in  harmony  with  her  clicking  needles, 
her  thoughts  took  form  in  words. 


THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE.  11 

"  How  the  world  has  turned  about,  to  be  sure !  "  said 
she  ;  "  't  is  nothing  but  change,  change.  Only  yester- 
day, as  it  were,  I  was  in  the  country,  smelling  the 
odious  flowers ;  —  to-day  I  am  in  Boston,  my  oil-facto- 
ries breathing  the  impure  execrations  of  coal-smoke, 
that  are  so  dilatory  to  health.  Instead  of  the  singing 
of  birds,  the  blunderbusses  almost  deprive  me  of  consci- 
entiousness. Dear  me !  Well,  I  hope  I  shall  be  restrained 
through  it  all.  They  say  that  the  moral  turpentine  of 
this  place  is  frightful,  but  it  is  n't  any  use  to  anticipate 
trouble  beforehand ;  he  may  escape  all  harmonious  in- 
fluences that  would  have  a  tenderness  to  hurt  him,  and, 
as  the  minister  of  our  parish  said,  with  judicial  train- 
ing he  may  become  a  useful  membrane  of  society ; 
though  training  is  bad  generally,  and  is  apt  to  make  the 
young  run  to  feathers,  like  cropple-crowned  hens.  But 
ne  has  genius," — looking  at  him;  —  "it  comes  natural 
to  him,  like  the  measles,  and  every  day  it  is  enveloping 
itself  more  and  more.  What  are  you  doing,  dear?"  she 
said,  rising  and  going  towards  him. 

"  I  'm  drawing  a  horse,"  replied  he,  turning  it  round 
so  that  she  could  see  it. 

"  Why,  so  it  is  !  and  what  caricature  and  spirit  there 
is  in  it,  to  be  sure !  I  should  have  known  it  was  a  horse, 
if  you  had  n't  said  a  word  about  it.  But  have  n't  you 
given  him  too  thick  a  head  of  hair  on  his  tail,  and  a  leg 
too  many  ?  " 

"  That 's  his  mane  that  you  call  his  tail,"  said  Ike,  with 
some  show  of  being  offended ;  "  and,  suppose  he  has 
got  five  legs  !  —  anybody  can  paint  one  with  four  ;  five 
shows  what  Miss  Brush,  my  teacher,  calls  the  creative 
power  of  genius." 

"  Well  I  must  digest  my  spectacles,"  replied  she,  smil- 
ing upon  him,  "  before  I  speak  another  time.  But  now 


12  THE   GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE. 

I  want  you  to  go  down  to  the  door  and  watch  for  a 
gentleman  that  I  suspect,  who  may  ask  you  to  tell  him 
where  we  live.  He  is  to  be  your  guardeen,  that  I  told 
you  about." 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Ike,  dutifully,  and  passed  out,  whistling 
Villikins  and  his  Dinah. 

Mrs.  Partington  being  a  stranger  in  the  neighborhc.  od, 
it  was  not  wonderful  that  the  neighbors,  of  which  there 
are  many  in  almost  every  place,  should  call  upon  her ; 
and  among  them  Professor  Wideswarth,  who  had  long 
been  familiar  with  her  name,  presented  his  card  at  an 
early  period,  as  did  Mr.  Blifkins,  and  Mr.  Slow,  and 
many  others,  who,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  lived  in  the 
immediate  vicinity.  Mrs.  Partington  had  deemed  that 
the  visit  of  Old  Roger  to  her  domicile  would  be  an  ex- 
cellent occasion  on  which  to  invite  her  new  acquaint- 
ances, and  had  accordingly  asked  their  presence  at  that 
time.  Among  others  with  whom  she  had  got  acquainted 
was  Miss  Dorothea  Chatterton,  a  good-looking  spinster 
of  some  thirty  summers,  who  had  written  for  the 
papers,  and  was  accounted  a  prodigy  of  refinement  by 
the  editors.  As  the  dame  sat  at  her  work,  after  des- 
patching Ike  upon  his  mission,  her  door-bell  rang,  and, 
hastening  to  open  it,  Miss  Chatterton  burst  upon  her  in 
the  full  flower  of  fashion  and  smiles. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  P.,"  said  she,  shaking  the  dame 
enthusiastically  by  the  hand.  "  I  feared  you  might  be 
lonesome,  and  so  I  have  come  to  keep  you  company,  if 
you  will  let  me." 

"  Certainly,"  was  the  pleasant  response,  "  I  will,  with 
the  greatest  reluctance." 

"  For  my  part,"  continued  Miss  Chatterton,  "  I  love 
to  be  sociable.  I  can't  bear  those  people  who  stand  so 
much  upon  ceremony,  and  never  get  acquainted.  1 


ftd  npon  the  curbstone  sat  looking  tor  his  future  adviser  up  and  down  me 
aaaanng  himwlt"  by  occasionally  throwing  pebble*  at  a  passing  dog.    P.  13. 


THE  GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE.  13 

don't  know  what  I  should  do,  if  I  could  n't  talk.  If  an 
injunction  was  put  upon  my  tongue,  and  my  head  de- 
pended upon  keeping  that  member  still,  I  believe  I 
should  forfeit  it,  and  talk  on  to  the  last  gasp.  Some  say 
I  have  remained  a  spinster  because  I  would  n't  stop 
talking  long  enough  to  allow  any  one  to  pop  the  ques- 
tion. A  mistake,  I  assure  you." 

"  So  you  are  a  spinster,  then  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Partington, 
as  her  visitor  paused  for  breath.  "  Do  you  use  a  large 
or  a  small  wheel  ?  " 

"  I  mean  by  spinster,"  replied  she,  blushing,  "  that  I 
am  a  single  woman,  and,  like  many  other  young  women, 
am  acquainted  only  with  spinning  street-yarn,  the  only 
wheel  used  being  that  where  I  wheel  round  the 
corners." 

"  I  'm  rejoiced  that  you  have  come,"  said  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton,  "for,  my  dear  Miss  Chatterbox,  I  am  going  to  have 
a  fine  old  unmarried  bachelor  here  to  tea,  that  I  want 
you  to  get  acquainted  with.  You  will  be  perfectly  vac- 
cinated by  him." 

"  Indeed  !  but  is  he  a  very  old  bachelor  ?  " 

"  0,  dear,  no  ;  he  is  n't  more  than  sixty  — just  in  the 
priming  of  life,  so  to  speak.  I  never  call  a  man  old  till 
he  gets  to  be  an  octagon  or  a  centurion,  and  can't  lift  u 
peck  of  wheat-bran." 

The  ladies  sat  down  to  their  talk,  while  Ike  upon  the 
curbstone  sat  looking  for  his  future  adviser  up  and 
down  the  street,  amusing  himself  by  occasionally  throw- 
ing pebbles  at  a  passing  dog,  kicking  his  heels  into  the 
gravel,  or  throwing  his  cap  in  the  air  that  it  might  drop 
upon  his  head. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  he,  "  what  sort  of  an  old  chap  this 
Roger  is,  that  is  going  to  look  after  me  !  I  s'poso 
."oiks  '11  tell  him  what  a  bad  fellow  I  am.  He  '11  find  that 
2 


14  THE  GUARDIAN   FOR  IKE. 

oat  soon  enough,  for  I  guess  they  don't  like  me  pretty 
well  round  here.  They  don't  want  a  fellow  to  have 
any  fun  at  all,  and  I  should  like  to  know  what  fun  was 
made  for,  anyhow.  I  don't  believe  I  am  half  as  bad  as 
they  make  it  out.  Hello  !  here  he  comes,  I  guess.  Big 
man  —  broad  hat  —  red  face  —  cane  ;  —  yes,  this  must 
be  him." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  my  lad,"  said  Old  Roger,  —  for  it 
was  he, — "where  a  Mrs.  Partington  lives,  somewhere 
about  here  ?  " 

"  I  know  where  Mrs.  Partington  lives,"  replied  Ike. 
"  I  don't  know  of  any  other  Mrs.  Partington  in  the 
world." 

"  Right,  my  lad,  and  that  is  she  ;  there  is,  indeed,  but 
one  Mrs.  Partington  in  the  world.  And  her  nephew  Ike 
—  do  you  know  him?  I  hear  strange  tales  about  him, 
and  little  that 's  good.  What  sort  of  a  boy  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  's  a  prime,  tip-top  fellow,  sir ;  one  of  the  tip-top- 
est  fellows  you  ever  see." 

"  What  sort  of  a  looking  boy  is  he  ?  " 

"  0,  he  's  about  my  size,  with  blue  hair  and  red  eyes, 
— I  mean  he  has  red  eyes  and  blue  hair,  —  no,  red  hair 
and  blue  eyes.  He  is  dark-complected,  and  has  got  a 
pugnacious  nose.  He  is  n't  a  very  good-looking  boy ; 
but  a  boy  should  n't  be  despised  because  he  is  n't 
handsome,  should  he  ?  You  're  not  remarkably  hand- 
some yourself,  sir." 

"  Be  civil,  my  young  friend.  Is  this  Ike  an  intelligent 
lad  ?  " 

"  He  is  n't  anything  else.  He  came  pretty  nigh  getting 
the  medal  once,  for  the  master  said  he  was  the  most 
medalsome  boy  in  school." 

"  He  must  be  a  rare  sprig  of  humanity,  according  to  all 
accounts,  and  might  be  benefited  by  a  little  trimming." 


THE   GUAEDIAN   FOB   IKE.  15 

«  Sho  !  » 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  '11  show  you  the  way,  sir,  to  Mrs.  Partington's. 
You  must  go  as  far  as  you  can  see,  yonder,  then  turn 
round  the  corner  to  the  right,  then  take  the  first  right- 
hand  corner,  then,  after  you  turn  the  next  corner  to  the 
right,  two  doors  further  along  is  Mrs.  Partington's." 

"  Thank  ye,  my  lad,  and  here  's  a  dime  for  you." 

The  intended  guardian  hobbled  on  his  course,  while 
Ike,  with  a  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  the  dime 
in  his  hand,  stood  looking  after  him  until  he  turned  the 
first  corner,  when  he  darted  into  the  house,  telling  Mrs. 
Partington  that  the  expected  guest  was  on  his  way, 
and  would  arrive  in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
then  dashed  out  again  and  down  the  street. 

After  making  the  circuit  of  an  entire  square,  "  Old 
Roger  "  found  himself  on  the  precise  spot  from  whence 
he  had  started,  and  looked  around  for  the  young  scamp 
who  had  directed  him.  He  recognjzed  the  trick  at  a 
glance,  and,  with  a  half  chagrin,  said  to  himself, 

"  I  '11  wager  that  Ike  was  the  little  villain  that  sent 
me  on  this  circuit.  The  young  jackanapes  !  if  he  were 
here,  I  'd  put  more  cane  on  him  than  would  make  a 
fashionable  lady's  dress.  Yet  there's  method  in  him, 
and  it  is  far  more  satisfactory  to  manage  a  rogue  than  a 
fool." 

He  stepped  to  the  door,  which  he  had  come  such  a 
roundabout  way  to  reach,  and  rung  the  bell.  In  a  mo- 
ment more  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  relict  of 
Paul  Partington.  Her  face  was  radiant  as  the  sun, 
while  her  cap-border  encircled  it  like  a  ray,  presenting 
no  mean  picture  of  that  august  luminary. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  she,  shaking 


16  THE  GUARDIAN  FOB  IKE. 

him  warmly  by  the  hand.  "  Did  you  find  any  deficiency 
in  finding  the  place  ?  " 

"Deficiency!"  replied  he,  "not  a  bit  of  it;  there 
was  rather  too  much  of  it,  if  anything.  I  should 
have  been  here  half  an  hour  ago,  if  a  young  villain  — 
whom  I  strongly  suspect  to  have  been  Ike  himself — 
had  not  sent  me  a  mile  out  of  my  way  to  find  you.  He 
told  meto  turn  this  way  and  that  way,  and  by  stupidly 
following  my  nose  I  found  myself  just  where  I  started 
from.  I  could  have  thrashed  him  for  sending  me  round 
on  so  warm  a  day  as  this ;  but,  madam,  he  is,  after  all, 
merely  a  boy,  true  to  the  boyish  instinct  of  fun.  The 
boy  is  not  true  to  his  nature  who  is  not  mischievous. 
Why,  I  was  a  boy  once,  myself,  incredible  as  that  may 
seem,  and  a  wilder  dog  never  wore  satinet  and  a  felt 
hat,  or  got  flogged  for  misdemeanors  that  he  didn't  do, 
than  myself;  but  here  I  am,  —  no  matter  how  old, 
though  confessing  to  thirty-seven  years,  —  and,  as  peo- 
ple say,  not  one  of  the  worst  men  in  town,  either." 

She  had  conducted  her  guest  into  the  little  sitting- 
room,  where  the  spinster  was  waiting  very  anxiously 
for  the  promised  presentation,  Mrs.  Partington  having 
previously  begged  her  not  to  be  "decomposed"  at  meet- 
ing him,  for  he  was  very  "  congealing  "  in  his  manner, 
and  a  "  perfect  Apollyon  for  politeness." 

"  Allow  me  to  present  you  with  Miss  Chatterbody," 
said  she,  as  they  gained  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"  Chatterton,  sir,  at  your  service,"  said  that  lady,  col- 
oring slightly,  as  if  it  were  a  coloring  matter. 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Partington,"  said  he,  politely 
bowing,  "  you  could  n't  present  me  with  anything  more 
agreeable." 

The  dame  begged  him  to  be  seated,  and  he  attempted 
to  do  so,  but  the  chair  unfortunately  possessed  but 


THE   GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE.  17 

three  legs,  and  the  honored  guest  rolled  ingloriously 
upon  the  floor.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  in  great  indig- 
nation. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  said  he.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  everything  is  conspiring  to  try  my  temper — natu- 
rally very  sweet.  Here  I  am  directed  a  mile  out  of  my 
way  to  find  you,  and  then  find  myself  sprawling  upon 
your  floor,  —  which,  though  it  is  remarkably  clean,  is 
not  a  very  desirable  place  for  one  to  sit,  in  a  land 
where  recumbency  is  not  the  fashion,  —  through  the 
medium  of  an  infernal  three-legged  stool.  —  Excuse  me 
for  using  so  strong  an  adjective,  but  I  never  was  so 
completely  floored  in  my  life." 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Partington, 
"  but  Isaac  must  have  taken  that  leg  to  make  a  bat  of." 

"  And  were  he  here,"  replied  he,  "  I  should  be 
tempted  to  give  him  a  bat  that  would  make  him 
bawl." 

"  We  should  all  be  willing  to  be  forgiven,  sir,"  expos- 
tulated the  dame. 

"  True,  true,"  replied  he,  recovering  his  good  humor, 
"and  to  forgive,  likewise.  What  a  world  this  would  be 
if  we  found  nothing  to  do  in  it  but  to  resent  fancied 
wrongs;  and  more  than  half  that  we  call  wrongs  are 
but  fancies,  and  a  large  portion  of  the  other  half  but 
the  mere  effect  of  wounded  self-esteem,  that  brooks 
nothing  which  conflicts  with  it." 

Mrs.  Partington  gazed  upon  him  admiringly ;  and,  as 
he  sought  another  chair,  she  turned  to  Miss  Chatterton 
and  said, 

"  If  he  was  the  pasture  for  a  parish,  he  could  n't  be 
more  fluid." 

To  this  remark  the  young  lady  nodded  and  smiled 
assent  j   and  the   object   of   the   encomium,   with  the 
2 


18  THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE. 

wrinkles  all  ironed  from  his  temper,  sat  in  the  best  of 
humor,  imparting  such  a  glow  to  the  surroundings  that 
even  the  rigid  profile  upon  the  wall  seemed  to  bend 
from  its  rigidity,  and  become  imbued  with  the  infection 
of  the  scene.  The  jar  of  a  step  upon  the  floor  caused 
a  slight  tintinnabulation  of  the  old  china  in  the  buffet, 
which  appeared  like  a  response  to  the  flow  of  good 
humor  that  pervaded  the  apartment.  The  circle  Avas 
soon  increased  by  the  addition  of  the  expected  guests. 
There  was  an  ominous  manuscript  protruding  from 
Wideswarth's  pocket,  while  his  eye  denoted  an  ab- 
stractedness, as  though  all  the  intelligence  it  ever  wore 
had  been  abstracted  from  it.  Philanthropes  was  calm 
and  exalted,  having  on  his  way  interrupted  a  street 
fight,  and  suffered  the  martyrdom  of  profane  abuse 
from  many  juvenile  tongues.  The  Brahmin  Poo-Poo, 
with  his  meerschaum  colored  to  a  delightful  complexion, 
and  his  red  cap  and  black  tassel,  and  satin  petticoat 
trousers,  was  an  object  of  respectful  curiosity.  Mr. 
Blif  kins,  having  attended  without  the  permission  of  his 
wife,  seemed  uneasy  and  fidgety,  as  a  man  must  who 
gets  goods  under  false  pretences.  The  venerable  Dr. 
Spooner  was  conspicuous  among  the  number,  his  bald 
head  rising  like  some  tall  cliff  on  which  the  eagles  of 
thought  might  well  delight  to  rest.  They  were  all 
there,  and  the  spinster  was  introduced  to  them  by  every 
variety  of  name  to  which  "  Chatter  "  would  hitch  ;  and 
all  was  moving  very  happily,  when  the  door-bell  rang 
violently,  and  Mr.  Increase  Slow  came  in,  with  his  face 
very  red  and  angry.  He  was  the  last  of  those  who 
had  been  invited.  After  greeting  the  company,  he 
said, 

"  I  am  sorry  to  complain  at  such  a  time,  mem,  but  I 
should  have  been  here  a  full  hour  ago,  but  for  your  Ike. 


THE   GUARDIAN  FOR   IKE.  19 

He  is  a  great  trouble  to  me.  He  goes  on  my  grass 
with  entire  impurity  ;  and,  just  now  when  I  attempted  to 
rush  out  and  drive  him  off,  —  gently  like,  you  know,  — • 
I  found  he  had  put  a  chip  in  the  latch  of  my  door,  and 
I  was  kept  shut  up  there  till  a  policeman  let  me  out. 
If  you  are  to  be  his  guardian,  sir,  as  I  understand,  he 
will  require  all  your  care." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  he,  sir  ?  "  asked  old  Roger. 

"  Certainly,  I  am.  There  's  nothing  done  round  here 
that  he  is  n't  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

Mr.  Slow  dropped  into  a  seat  like  a  kedge-anchor, 
and  the  party  grew  suddenly  grave,  as  a  meadow  full 
of  strawberries  and  birds  may,  when  a  cloud  comes 
betwixt  it  and  the  sun. 

"  Mr.  Roger,"  said  Prof.  Wideswarth,  nervously  finger- 
ing the  manuscript  in  his  pocket,  "  a  kindred  quality  of 
mirth  appears  to  enter  into  the  whole  plan  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  this  boy,  though  roguish,  is  a  human  ex- 
ponent of  the  quality ;  and,  apropos  of  mirth,  I  have 
here  a  short  poem,  that  it  would  delight  me  to  read 
to  you." 

"  I  should  be  equally  delighted  to  heai  it,"  Roger 
replied,  winking  to  Mr.  Slow,  who  settled  back  in  his 
chair,  as  though  fixing  himself  in  a  position  to  sleep,  in 
case  the  circumstances  might  warrant. 

Wideswarth  cleared  his  throat,  twitched  oul  his  man- 
uscript, and  thus  proceeded : 

"  I  sing  of  mirth  !  —  that  boon  of  bounteous  heaven, 
Which  stirs  our  bosoms  with  its  generous  leaven  — 
Given  mankind  to  cheer  their  lot  below, 
To  countervail  the  smart  of  pressing  woe  ; 
Given  the  heart  the  worth  of  life  to  prize, 
Given  to  bless  all  objects  to  our  eyes. 
Without  its  aid  the  heavens  were  dark  and  drear, 
The  winds  were  full  of  naught  but  boding  fear  ; 


20  THE   GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE. 

The  Bob-o'-Lincoln  on  the  bending  hay 

Would  tune  his  note  to  dirges  all  the  day  ; 

The  grass  and  dowers,  that  glow  in  such  sweet  guiae, 

Would  be  but  Quaker  drab  beneath  our  eyes  ; 

And  melody  of  bird,  and  bee,  and  brook, 

Would  be  expunged  from  Nature's  singing-book  ! 

All  Nature  laughs  through  the  repeating  years  — 

Laughs  when  the  first  young  flower  of  Spring  appears, 

Laughs  in  the  Summer  prime  of  beauteous  bloom, 

And  sends  to  heaven  its  echoes  of  perfume  ; 

Laughs  when  the  Autumn  binds  its  yellow  sheaves, 

And  reddens  in  the  face  as  Autumn  leaves  ; 

Laughs  sturdily  along  November's  sky, 

And  roars  in  boisterous  mirth  when  storms  are  high, 

Rattles  our  windows  with  a  jubilant  din, 

Or,  laughing  with  the  sunshine,  enters  in. 

What  notes  of  mirth  rise  from  the  shady  nooks, 

From  birds  and  insects,  foliage  and  brooks  ! 

What  peals  of  laughter  shake  the  concave  high, 

When  thunder  rattles  through  the  summer  sky  ! 

The  lambs  run  laughing  o'er  the  vernal  plain, 

And  glad  sounds  tinkle  in  the  summer  rain  ! 

Mirth  gives  a  charm  to  girlhood's  fairest  grace, 

And  limns  the  generous  soul  on  boyhood's  face. 

Sweet  girlhood  !  changing  like  the  varying  wind,  — 

Now  wild  for  this,  and  now  for  that  inclined,  — 

Teasing  papa  with  never-ending  needs. 

That  he  's  "  dead  broke  "  if  half  the  list  he  heeds  ; 

Now  a  piano,  now  a  fan,  a  ring, 

Now  a  new  dress  from  such  a  "  charming  thing  !  " 

He  frets  —  good  man  —  his  cash  is  not  a  pile, 

Refuses  —  yields  —  he '«  conquered  by  a  smile. 

And  boyhood,  rampant  with  its  fun  and  noise, 

Oft  mingles  bitter  in  our  cup  of  joys, 

And  many  an  anxious  sigh  is  made  to  start, 

And  many  a  throb  to  heave  the  parent's  heart, 

While  watching  'mid  the  wilfulness  of  youth 

To  see  the  germs  of  honesty  and  truth  ! 

0,  Ike  !  thou  elf,  who  dost  with  pranks  abound, 

In  every  home  thy  counterpart  is  found  ; 

Thy  mischief  may  at  times  becloud  the  soul, 

But  smile,  and  half  the  doubt  away  shall  roll  — 


THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE.  21 

But  give  the  music  of  an  honest  laugh, 

And  then  will  vanish  all  the  other  half. 

But  levity  should  ne'er  its  guile  obtrude 

To  mar  the  cheerful  heart's  beatitude ; 

It  has  no  place  where  genial  humor  dwells  — 

Its  home  is  where  the  voice  of  passion  swells ; 

Where  the  red  wine  glows  in  the  ruddy  light, 

And  turns  to  day  the  watches  of  the  night ; 

Where  the  hoarse  voice,  in  Buchanalian  strain,  \ 

Echoes  in  chorus  with  some  coarse/  refrain  ! 

Let  us  be  gay,  and  let  our  mirth  arise 

Before  the  great  All-Good  as  sacrifice. 

The  source  of  joy  no  sombre  tribute  claims, 

Nor  priestly  rite,  nor  sacrificial  flames ; 

The  heart's  outpouring  in  its  happiness 

The  smile  of  kindly  heaven  will  ever  bless ; 

So  may  our  purest  strains  of  joy  ascend, 

And  with  unwritten  harmonies  of  heaven  blend." 

The  reading  was  followed  by  many  remarks  approba- 
tory. Mr.  Slow  ventured  the  observation  that,  though 
it  was  tip-top,  it  seemed  to  him  strange  that  so  much 
should  have  been  said  about  fun  with  so  little  fun  in  it  ; 
but  Dr.  Spooner  came  to  the  rescue  of  the  poet,  by 
saying  that  in  this  respect,  if  it  were  so,  it  was  like 
many  sermons  that  we  hear,  all  about  religion,  but 
which  did  not  contain  one  spark  of  it !  Philanthropes 
agreed  with  the  sentiment  of  the  poem,  and  said  he  had 
thought  of  recommending  to  the  Provident  Association 
the  application -of  laughing  gas  in  neighborhoods  where 
poverty  prevailed,  in  order  that  privation  might  be 
lessened  by  the  infusion  of  jocularity. 

At  this  point  there  was  a  loud  ringing  at  the  bell, 
and  presently  a  tall,  spare,  seedy-looking  individual 
was  introduced,  whom  Miss  Chatterton  recognized  as 
Signer  Lignumvitas,  who  taught  music  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Turning  to  Mrs.  Partington,  he  said,  in  English 
a  trifle  muddy, 


22  THE  GUARDIAN  FOR  IKE. 

"  Madam,  zat  vat  you  sail  call  him,  ze  plaggy  Hike, 
be  one  ver  bad  ga^on.  He  no  ear  for  ze  music,  but 
ven  I  blow  ze  horn,  and  play  ze  grand  opera,  he  toot 
he's  hands,  so,  "  —  making  a  trumpet  of  his  hands  and 
tooting,  —  "  and  mak  all  ze  music  no  worth  nossing.  I 
can  no  stand  it.  Eferybody  laugh  at  me.  Zey  touch 
zar  nose,  so, "  —  putting  his  thumb  to  his  nose,  —  "  so 
mosh  as  to  say, '  Ah,  ha !  you  be  von  humboog  ! '  You 
sail  leek  zat  plaggy  Hike  ! " 

"  This  is  a  fine  opening  for  a  guardian,"  thought 
Roger,  as  Mrs.  Partington  turned  her  eyes  towards 
him.  She  went  out  with  the  Signer,  and  Roger  re- 
marked to  Miss  Chatterton  that  there  were  times  when 
he  did  not  regret  that  he  had  never  been  a  parent. 

She  replied  that  she  deemed  none  could  properly 
direct  children,  as  teachers  or  guardians,  who  had  not 
children  of  their  own.  He  thought  a  moment  seriously, 
and  then  admitted  the  general  correctness  of  the 
remark. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  been,"  said  he, 
"surrounded  by  a  family,  —  perhaps  a  pater-familias  of 
rare  virtues,  —  but  my  heart  is  whole.  I  never  saw 
occasion  to  leave  the  charmed  circle  of  single  blessed- 
ness." 

"  Were  you  never  in  love?  "  she  questioned. 

"  Once,"  said  he,  affecting  to  sigh  ;  "  everybody,  they 
say,  is  in  love  once.  When  I  boarded  at  101,  a  young 
and  gallant  fellow,  there  was  one  fair  creature  to  whom 
I  paid  many  attentions,  and  some  money  for  certain 
buttons  that  she  attached  at  sundry  times  to  needy 
garments ;  and  she  gave  me,  as  I  thought,  indications  of 
regard  beyond  that  of  a  mere  landlady's  daughter,  as 
she  was,  —  a  regard  usually  included  in  the  weekly 
board-bill.  I  determined  not  to  be  cruel,  and  leave  her 


THE   GUAKDIAN   FOR   IKE.  23 

to  suffer  on  account  of  my  indifference.  Fortune  fixed 
the  flint  of  my  affection.  'T  was  on  a  night  in  summer, 
and  the  gentle  air  swept  across  the  back-sheds,  and 
through  the  parlor  windows  of  101,  over  three  consump- 
tive geraniums  that  attempted  to  bloom  there.  As  I 
entered,  I  saw  a  female  figure,  clothed  in  white,  by  the 
open  window,  that  my  heart  told  me  was  Seraphima's ! 
I  stepped  noiselessly  towards  her,  over  the  tufted 
second-hand  carpet,  that  Seraphima's  mamma  had  bought 
at  auction.  A  moment,  and  my  arm  encircled  her  neck, 

and 1  kissed  her  !  In  another  moment  I  was  rolling 

on  the  floor,  with  one  of  Seraphima's  flower-pots  broken 
upon  my  head.  My  heart  had  deceived  me,  and  I  had 
unfoitunately  kissed  another  man's  wife,  which,  in  those 
days  of  innocence,  was  deemed  a  sacrilege  !  An  im- 
pression was  made  by  that  blow  which  will  never  be 
effaced.  It  is  here  to  this  day, "  —  pointing  to  his 
head.  "  From  that  moment  Seraphima  became  obnox- 
ious to  me, — all  my  love  for  her  was  knocked  out  of 
me,  —  and  she  died,  some  fifteen  years  afterwards,  of  a 
broken  heart  and  tight  lacing." 

"  It  is  a  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  who  had 
returned  in  time  to  hear  the  close  of  the  story  ;  "  it  is  a 
wonder  that  it  did  not  give  you  a  suggestion  of  the 
brain." 

"  It  did,  ma'am,"  replied  he ;  "  and  that  suggestion 
"was,  to  leave  the  women  alone." 

The  door-bell  here  rang  again,  and  Mrs.  Partington 
came  in  with  a  queer  little,  bald-headed  man,  whose  ap- 
pearance denoted  an  acquaintance  with  fluids  of  an 
inflammatory  character.  He  was  somewhat  confused  on 
finding  himself  in  so  large  a  company,  and  turned  to  go 
out,  when  the  motion  revealed  a  human  face  drawn 
roughly  in  black  on  the  bald  scalp  behind,  like  that 


24  THE   GUAKDIAN   FOR  IKE. 

funny  picture  of  Johnston's.     He  turned  again,  with  his 
nose  blushing  very  red,  and  addressed  Mrs.  Partington : 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "I  've  brought  myself  here  to  com- 
plain of  your  Ike.  I  looked  bad  enough  before,  but  he 
has  made  me  look  a  great  deal  worse,  behind.  I  am  a 
double-header,  —  a  man  beside  myself.  A  pretty  object, 
are  n't  I  ?  I  'm  only  fit  noAV  for  a  politician  who  wishes 
to  be  on  both  sides  of  the  fence  at  the  same  time.  You 
see,  I  was  a  little  overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  day,  and, 
sitting  down  a  moment  in  the  shade,  fell  asleep,  when 
along  comes  Ike,  and,  as  you  see,  he  made  a  marked 
man  of  me.  Everybody  says  it  must  be  he  who  did  it. 
Could  I  see  with  the  eyes  he  has  given  me  behind,  I 
might,  like  some  other  people,  laugh  at  my  own  fun, 
which  privilege  is  now  denied  me." 

Mrs.  Partington  cast  a  look  full  of  despair  iipon 
Roger,  as  she  escorted  the  man  to  the  door. 

"  This  is  certainly  a  very  pleasant  young  man,"  said 
he,  "  with  an  excellent  chance  for  improvement,  and 
considerable  of  it.  I  am  delighted  with  my  prospect." 

"  Should  you  have  to  resort  to  corporal  punish- 
ment," said  Philanthropos,  "  I  should  suggest  the  brier- 
rose  twig,  as  it  will  bring  the  rebel  sooner  to  penitence, 
as  Colt's  pistols  and  steam  guns  tend  sooner  to  bring 
about  peace." 

"  I  hope  you  will  administer  chloroform  before  you 
apply  it,"  suggested  Dr.  Spooner;  "and,  as  in  the' 
new  materia  medica  the  efficacy  of  medicine  is  tested 
by  the  doctor's  taking  it  himself,  allow  me  to  recom- 
mend, Mr.  Philanthropos,  that  you  have  it  tried  upon 
yourself.  I  would  be  delighted  to  do  it  gratuitously." 

"  A  capital  idea  !  "  said  Wideswarth ;  "  it  is  worthy 
of  a  sonnet." 

"  Perhaps  he  could  bear  the  flogging  better  than  he* 


THE   GUARDIAJN    FOR   IKE.  25 

could  the  sonnet,"  said  Roger,  in  an  under  tone,  punch- 
ing the  Brahmin  in  the  ribs,  who  sat  smoking  his  meer- 
schaum. The  Brahmin  responded  by  a  grave  bow. 
Mrs.  Partington  returned,  holding  in  her  hand  an  open 
note,  which  she  handed  to  Roger,  in  much  confusion. 
He  read : 

"  Miss  PAE.KINSON  :  Your  boy  has  been  and  tied  a  culinary  utensile  to 
the  caudle  appendidge  of  a  canine  favorite  of  ourn,  an  indignity  that  wee 
shall  never  submit  to.  He  is  a  reproach  to  the  neighborhood,  and  you 
must  punish  him  severally.  THE  Miss  TIMMINSES." 

He  crushed  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  said,  "  This  is 
a  precious  litle  rascal,  to  be  sure ;  and,  according  to 
present  appearances,  the  chances  of  finding  any  good 
in  him  are  about  as  limited  as  would  be  those  of  finding 
strawberries  growing  on  the  top  of  Mount  Washington." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  subject  of 
their  animadversion  entered,  throwing  his  hat  into  a 
corner,  and  tumbling  down  along  side  of  it. 

"  Isaac,"  said  the  dame,  tenderly,  "  you  are  causing 
me  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness.  Do  you  do  all  the 
mischief  there  is  done  in  the  neighborhood  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,  neither,"  replied  Ike  :  "  I  don't  do  half 
so  bad  as  they  make  out." 

"  Did  n't  you  fasten  me  in  ?  "  said  Mr.  Slow,  coming 
forward. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  I  should  n't  have  done  it,  if  you 
had  n't  been  so  ugly.  No  boy  would  ever  trouble  you, 
if  you  'd  be  kind  to  him." 

"  True,"  said  Dr.  Spooner,  "  there 's  a  good  deal  of 
human  nature  in  a  boy." 

"  Kindness  is  better  than  spring  guns  as  a  defence," 
said  old  Roger,  "  but  the  lad  seems  incorrigible.  Here 
comes  another  complaint,  I  dare  say,"  as  the  door-bel] 
rang  again. 

3 


26  THE  GUARDIAN   FOE  IKE. 

Mrs.  Partington  held  up  her  hands,  as  she  went  to 
see  who  was  at  the  door,  and  returned  with  a  poor- 
looking  woman,  who  wore, a  widow's  dress.  » 

"I've  dropped  in,  ma'am,  though  I 'm  a  stranger," 
*aid  she,  "  to  thank  your  manly  little  boy  for  taking 
the  part  of  my  lame  son,  when  he  was  imposed  upon  by 
the  bad  boys  in  the  street,  just  now.  He  drove  them 
away  like  a  hero,  and  punished  them  for  their  cowardly 
conduct.  And  he  was  not  content  with  this,  but  he 
gave  him  a  bright  silver  dime  to  buy  some  oranges 
with.  A  boy  with  such  a  heart  as  his  must  be  a 
treasure  to  you,  and  he  will  prove  a  comfort  to  you  in 
your  old  age." 

"  There,"  said  Roger,  gleefully,  rubbing  his  hands, 
"  that  one  act  compensates  for  all  the  rest.  Had  I  a 
son  like  that,  I  should  prize  him  more  than  mines  of 
gold.  Such  a  boy  would  make  ten  years  of  hard  matri- 
mony endurable.  Madam,  here  is  a  ten-dollar  gold 
piece  for  your  information." 

She  received  it  very  thankfully,  and  passed  out, 
Invoking  on  him  and  the  house  the  widow's  blessing. 

"And  do  you  forgive  him?"  said  Mrs.  Partington, 
Bmiling  with  gratification. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  boys  should  be  for- 
given far  more  than  they  are.  A  boy  that  does  n't  love 
fun  is  n't  always  to  be  trusted ;  and  the  one  who  has  his 
wits  about  him,  and  does  not  take  to  fun,  will,  depend 
upon  it,  take  to  something  worse.  Parents  mistake 
when  they  put  an  unyielding  check  upon  a  boy's  con- 
duct ;  when  he  gets  his  way,  he  will,  nine  times  in  ten,  go 
differently  from  his  direction,  and  covert  sin  will  work 
insidiously,  maugre  all  interdiction.  I  can't  bear  to  see 
a  parchment-faced  boy,  with  a  ledger  in  his  glance  at 
ten.  Give  me  the  lad  with  his  soul  speaking  in  his 


THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE.  27 

laughing  eye,  and  thrilling  in  every  nerve  of  his  ani- 
mated b^dy.  That  is  your  true  boyhood.  Where 
there  is  no  malice,  mischief  is  not  sin.  The  boys 
commit  it  as  the  kids  eat  fruit-buds,  or  the  birds  pick 
Mr.  Hovey's  strawberries,  —  it  is  their  nature." 

The  speech  was  received  with  applause  by  Ike,  who 
had  donned  his  guardian's  hat  and  gloves,  and  was 
standing  leaning  on  his  gold-headed  cane.  Mrs.  Par- 
tington  was  astonished ;  Roger  was  disposed  to  be 
indignant,  but  he  fortunately  remembered  what  he  had 
just  said,  and  contented  himself  with  seeing  Ike  take 
them  off. 

Mrs.  Partington  bustled  about,  and  in  a  short  time 
announced  that  tea  was  awaiting  the  company  in  the 
room  "  contagious "  to  the  sitting-room,  where  the 
company  sat  down  to  the  table.  Roger  was  seated  di- 
rectly opposite  Miss  Chatterton,  at  Mrs.  Partington'a 
right  hand,  while  by  her  side  Ike  had  taken  his  accus- 
tomed position.  The  rest  of  the  company  took  their 
places  agreeably  to  their  hostess'  invitation  to  "  de- 
range "  themselves  as  they  could  make  it  convenient. 

There  was  pleasant  music  around  the  board,  and 
happy  faces  beaming  amid  the  steam  of  the  fragrant 
souchong.  There  was  much  agreeable  conversation 
among  all  the  parties.  It  was  general  and  discur- 
sive for  the  most,  part,  though  one  particular  incident 
gave  it,  to  some  parties,  a  tender  interest.  Ike  had 
observed  a  disposition  on  the  part  of  his  guardian  to 
speak  low  and  confidential  things  to  his  opposite 
neighbor,  Miss  Chatterton,  and  his  foot,  as  he  sat  by 
her  side,  just  reached  that  of  the  old  gentleman.  He 
thought  to  himself  what  a  prime  thing  it  would  be  if  he 
could  touch  his  toe  and  make  him  believe  that  Miss 
Chatterton  did  it,  and  resolved  to  try  it.  When  the 


28  THE   GUARDIAN   FOR  IKE. 

doughnuts  were  handed  round,  Roger  selected  one  that 
was  heart-shaped  and  handed  it  over  to  his  vis-a-vis,  with 
the  remark,  » 

"  This,  my  dear  Miss  Chatterton,  is  the  '  heart  that 
never  loved.' " 

The  lady  received  it  with  the  reply,  "  Indeed  !  and 
yet,  you  see,  it  is  broken  ; "  breaking  a  piece  of  it  off  as 
she  spoke. 

"  A  melancholy  fate,"  said  he,  "  for  that  which  was 
wholly  yours." 

He  was  surprised,  as  he  uttered  this,  to  feel  a  gentle 
pressure  upon  his  foot  beneath  the  table.  It  was  a 
light  and  careful  touch,  and  bore  no  semblance  to 
accident. 

"  As  much  so  as  it  was  the  young  lady's  at  101," 
said  she,  archly. 

He  felt  another  touch  as  she  spoke,  which  assured 
him  of  its  origin,  and  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  He 
beamed  upon  her  like  the  sun  upon  a  planet. 

"  And  how  would  you  have  acted,"  said  he,  "  had  you 
been  in  her  place  ?  Would  you  have  died  in  fifteen 
years  of  a  broken  heart  ?  " 

"  Can't  say  that  I  might  not  have  died  before  that,  of 
some  other  disease,"  she  replied. 

He  felt  the  touch  under  the  table  again,  which  ope- 
rated upon  him  like  a  jar  full  of  electric  eels. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  love,  Miss  Chatterton?  "  said  he, 
in  a  tremendously  deep  whisper,  as  low  as  G. 

•'  Never  with  any  one  but  myself,"  replied  she,  smil- 
ingly. 

The  touch  followed  the  remark,  as  the  sound  follows 
the  flash. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  be  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say," 


THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE.  29 

The  touch  succeeded,  to  his  infinite  delight. 

"  Miss  Chatterton,"  said  he,  reaching  over,  so  that  his 
remark  might  not  be  heard  by  any  one  else  but  her, 
"  you  have  made  a  deep  impression  upon  me.  Indeed, 
I  may  say  that  your  foot  has  touched  my  heart,  —  given 
it,  so  to  speak,  a  finishing  touch." 

"  My  foot  touched  your  heart,  sir  !  I  don't  under- 
stand  you." 

"  Not  perhaps  literally,"  he  continued ;  "  but  the  little 
touches  of  your  foot  beneath  the  table  have  touched  me 
very  sensibly." 

"  I  have  not  touched  you,"  replied  she,  very  much 
surprised. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  he,  in  some  confusion  ;  "  it  is 
another  instance  of  the  trickery  of  that  plaguy  Ike. 
But,  be  that  as  it  may,  you  have  much  interested  me, 
and  I  shall  place  this  evening  among  the  happiest  of 
my  life." 

Ike,  as  he  saw  the  denouement  of  his  plot  approach- 
ing, had  made  his  escape  just  in  time.  During  this 
scene  the  other  members  of  the  party  had  been  busily 
talking. 

"  Yes,"  Wideswarth  at  this  point  was  heard  to  say, 
"  in  petty  trials  are  summed  up  most  of  the  sorrows 
that  beset  us  here.  We  brace  up  against  large  trials, 
and  support  ourselves  by  props  of  resolution ;  but  the 
little  worriments,  like  the  dropping  that  wears  the  stone, 
undermine  our  temper,  and  down  it  comes  with  a 
crash,  and  a  confusion  of  oaths  and  tears.  Please  listen 
to  a  sonnet  I  have  to-day  written  regarding  minor 
trials : 

Bigger  vexations,  like  a  '  fresh '  in  spring, 
Assail  the  soul  in  their  impetuous  wrath; 

The  fierce  tornado  on  its  course  doth  wing, 
Dashing  obstructions  from  its  chosen  path  ! 
3* 


SO  THE   GUARDIAN   FOR  IKE. 

But  little  troubles,  like  a  nibbling  mouse, 

Gnaw  slowly  from  our  comfort,  as  't  were  cheose  ;  — 
Take  you  a  smoky  chimney  to  a  house, 

Or  scolding  wife,  perpetual  bane  to  ease, 
Or  grain  within  the  eye,  or  gouty  feet, 

Or  debts  unpaid,  —  exchequer  running  low,  — 
Or  hurdy-gurdy  grinding  in  the  street, 

Or  six-cent  Cubas  that  you  can't  make  go." 

"Allow  me,"  said  Roger,  "to  propose,  as  the  two  con 
eluding  lines,  the  following : 

Or  one  sweet  foot  of  an  illusive  joy, 

Made  less  than  nothing  by  a  roguish  boy.'* 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  the  lines,"  replied  Wide- 
swarth,  "  excepting  that  of  irrelevancy.  I  cannot  ex- 
actly understand — " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Roger,  "  that  should  be  no  objec- 
tion^ for  who  ever  thinks  of  asking  what  a  sonnet 
means  ?  I  appeal  to  yourself.  We  take  it  for  granted 
that  a  poet  sees  his  own  meaning,  and  out  of  compli- 
ment ask  no  questions." 

"  I  could  have  suggested  a  minor  difficulty  to  have 
added  to  the  number,"  said  Philanthropes ;  "  the  ingrat- 
itude one  is  liable  to  meet  with  who  tries  to  do  a  good 
act.  A  few  days  since  I  saw  a  dog  going  along  with  a 
heavy  basket  in  his  mouth,  and,  thinking  of  relieving 
him,  I  attempted  to  take  it  from  him,  meaning  to  carry 
it  myself  when  the  canineite  snapped  at  me  as  though 
he  suspected  my  motives." 

"  I  was  much  annoyed,  a  few  days  since,1'  said  Dr. 
Spooner,  "  by  a  trifle  which  very  much  disturbed  my 
equanimity.  I  was  passing  a  lady  whose  dress  spread 
over  an  area  about  equal  to  that  of  a  load  of  hay,  when 
I  accidentally  stepped  upon  her  flounce.  An  unmis- 
takable tear  followed,  at  which  I  looked  round  to  apolo- 


THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE.  3 1 

gize.  But  my  contrition  and  shame  all  vanished  before 
the  look  she  gave  me.  It  was  the  concentration  of 
spitefulness,  and,  instead  of  apologizing,  I  asked  myself 
the  question  if  she  were  not  the  aggressor  in  protruding 
herself  upon  my  path,  and  so  I  passed  on  j  but  it  dis- 
turbed me." 

"  A  nervous  wife,"  said  Blifkins  "  is  a  consideration 
in  this  direction."  He  said  it  timidly. 

"  All  fade  away  before  rheumatism  in  the  ankle,"  said 
old  Roger. 

"  Are  you  subject  to  romantic  affections  ?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Partington,  with  anxiety  in  her  tone  and  a  spoon 
in  her  hand.  "  My  poor  Paul  was  terribly  infected  by 
them  one  winter,  when  we  lived  contagious  to  the 
marshes." 

The  door-bell  rang  violently,  and  the  old  lady  went 
out  to  see  who  caused  the  alarm.  She  came  back 
immediately. 

"  There  was  nobody  there,"  said  she.  "  Well,  as  I 
was  saying,  he  had.  an  affectation  in  his  back,  and  an 
embargo  in  his  head,  and  a  vertebra  all  over  him.  He 
could  n't  move  without  resistance." 

The  door-bell  rang  again,  which  she  attended  to  with 
the  same  result. 

"  I  'm  shore,"  said  she,  "  I  don't  see  who  it  can  be. 
Well,  as  I  was  pretending  to  say,  our  minister  sent  for 
him,  right  in  the  midst  of  his  trouble,  to  come  and  cut 
up  a  pig  for  him.  Nothing  would  do  but  he  must  go. 
So  he  crawled  out,  and  just  as  he  was  going  up  over  a 
little  hill,  holding  on  to  the  fence  — " 

The  door-bell  rang  the  third  time. 

"  Well,"  sp.id  Mrs.  Partington.  as  she  rose  to  go, 
'  bells  can't  ring  without  hands,  unless  they  're  rung  by 
the  spirits.  Perhaps  it 's  them." 


32  THE   GUARDIAN   FOR   IKE. 

"  Well,  by  all  means  ask  them  in,"  responded  Roger; 
"  it  will  give  new  spirits  to  our  party." 

"  I  can't  see,  for  the  life  of  me,  what  it  means,"  said 
she,  coming  back  from  the  door ;  "  but,  as  I  was  telling 
you,  as  he  was  going  over  the  hill  his  feet  slipped,  and 
ho  was  prostituted  from  the  top  to  the  bottom.  He  got 
up,  strange  to  say,  as  well  as  he  ever  was  in  his  life. 
The  remedy  is  very  simple." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  he,  "  and  I  think  I  '11  try  it,  some 
time." 

The  fact  that  Ike  came  in  just  then,  coupled  with  the 
recent  ringing,  gave  evidence  of  the  cause  of  the  latter, 
and  Roger  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  denoting 
a  guardian's  feelings. 

"  Ike,"  said  he,  "  come  here  ;  I  am  to  have  a  hand  in 
your  bringing  up.  Now,  I  have  to  tell  you  that  you 
must  toe  the  mark ;  be  obedient,  dutiful,  and  respect- 
ful, or you  villain !  that  is  my  toe  you  are  kick- 
ing." 

"  Is  the  touch  as  tender  as  the  one  .you  just  now 
received  ?  "  said  Miss  Chatterton,  with  a  sly  manner. 

"  No  more  of  that,"  said  he,  smiling  amid  his  pain, 
"  if  thou  lovest  me.  That  illusion  was  a  pleasant  one, 
which  may  yet,  I  hope,  through  propitious  fates,  become 
a  reality." 

The  party  had  by  this  time  arisen,  and,  as  he  uttered 
the  significant  expression,  he  took  her  hand,  which  she 
did  not  withdraw,  and  whispered  in  her  ear, 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing,  —  but  there  are  many  strange 
things  happening  all  the  time,  —  that  an  obdurate  old 
bachelor  should  have  been  thus  subjugated,  and  by  such 
means  ;  but  I  am  confident  that  it  is  a  good  fate  which 
has  brought  us  together,  for  which  I  must  thank  that 
plaguy  Ike." 


AUTUMN.  33 

She  touched  his  foot, — not  the  gouty  one,  —  and 
smiled,  and  the  conquest  was  complete. 

The  party  now  rose  to  depart,  but  before  they  went 
expressed  their  undivided  delight,  Dr.  Spooner  averring 
that  he  had,  for  a  long  time,  been  seeking  for  the  delect- 
able, but  had  never  come  so  near  its  attainment  before ; 
proposing  Mrs.  Partington's  health,  which  was  drunk, 
"  paregorically,"  as  she  afterwards  expressed  it. 

She  returned  thanks,  stating  that  she  was  very  ful- 
some with  her  emotions,  and  ready  to  make  any  sacra- 
ment for  their  happiness.  And  this  was  the  way  the 
guardianship  for  Ike  began. 


AUTUMN. 

HAIL  !  beauteous  queen  —  (not  literally,  please ! 

Thy  reign  I  'd  rather  signalize  in  verse ;)  — 
My  full  heart  drops  in  homage  on  its  knees, 

The  while  thy  glories  it  would  fain  rehearse. 
Blest  of  Pomona,  thy  redundant  horn 

Is  full  of  fruitage,  and  around  thy  brow 
Bright  vines  are  twined,  with  berries  that  adorn 

Thy  golden  ringlets  with  a  ripened  glow  ! 
Ceres  her  trophies  brings,  and  at  thy  feet 

Pours  out  the  bounteous  harvest's  golden  rain, 
And  gushing  wine,  in  pipes,  makes  music  sweet. 

While  sturdy  Plenty  dances  in  thy  train. 
0,  Autumn!    I  could  sing  a  song  sublime 
In  praise  of  thee,  from  now  till  Christmas  time. 

3 


34  TWENTY  YEARS  MARRIED. 

TWENTY    YEARS    MARRIED. 

YES,  twenty  years  have  winged  their  flight, 

Since  that  mysterious  woijd  I  spoke, 
When,  on  a  beauteous  summer  night, 

I  first  assumed  the  flowery  yoke. 
I  long  had  craved  the  blissful  chain, 

And  cheerfully  subscribed  the  vow ; 
Perhaps  I  'd  do  the  same  again  — 

Perhaps  —  though  I  am  older  now. 

Ah  !  well  do  I  recall  the  time 

When  she,  now  pensive  by  my  side, 
Stood,  in  her  blushing  morning  prime, 

A  tender,  sweet,  and  bashful  bride ; 
And  I,  so  proud  of  that  dear  hand, 

Could  scarce  contain  myself  for  bliss;— 
I  'd  bought  a  tract  of  fairy  land, 

And  sealed  my  purchase  with  a  kiss. 

For  happiness  we  trimmed  our  sail, 

My  darling  little  bride  and  I ; 
Hope's  breezes  blew  a  pleasant  gale, 

And  gently  smiled  the  summer  sky. 
The  world  seemed  made,  for  her  and  me, 

All  bright  wherever  we  might  turn, 
Our  life  to  be  a  tranquil  sea  — 

Sweet  innocents  !  we  'd  much  to  learn. 

For  soon  did  Care's  disturbing  breath 

Its  baleful  influence  impart, 
And  bitter  sorrow,  born  of  death, 

O'ercast  the  sunshine  of  our  heart; 
But  still,  as  trouble  round  us  rose, 

Each  closer,  fonder,  clung  to  each, 
Blessed  with  the  strength  of  love's  repose, 

Enduring  all  that  grief  could  teach. 

We  'd  much  of  joy,  though  small  our  sphere, 
And  craved  no  more  extended  fame, 

For  children  made  our  dwelling  dear,  — 
'T  was  wonderful  how  fast  they  came  !  — 

"  The  more  the  merrier,"  we  said, 
And  in  them  every  wish  was  blest ; 


TWENTY  YEAKS  MARRIED.  35 

A  part  in  our  embrace  have  staid, 
A  mound  at  Woodlawn  tells  the  rest. 

Those  twenty  years  have  left  their  trace 

Upon  her  brow,  then  smooth  and  fair, 
And  stolen,  some  say,  the  witching  grace 

That  once  her  features  used  to  wear ; 
But  still  I  see  the  same  kind  eyes 

Beam  on  me  with  a  light  as  true 
As  when,  in  love's  young  paradise, 

I  first  their  inspiration  knew. 

And  I  — well,  well  —  we  '11  let  that  pass:  — 

None  more  than  I  time's  changes  see, 
Each  day  I  shave  myself,  —  alas  ! 

My  mirror  does  not  natter  me ; 
But  if  I  'm  changed  for  worst  or  best 

I  cannot  answer,  on  my  life, 
And  leave  the  solving  of  this  test 

To  such  as  choose  to  ask  my  wife. 

This  lesson  we  have  fully  learned: 

Pure  happiness  that  men  have  deemed 
Is  but  a  hope  soon  overturned, 

A  vision  but  in  fancy  dreamed ; 
That  all  of  happiness  below, 

Pursuing  which  the  life  is  spent 
In  mingled  scenes  of  bliss  and  woe, 

Is  measured  by  the  word  CONTENT. 

Though  fortune  may  withhold  its  smile, 

As  it  has  done  in  time  before, 
Content  shall  still  our  way  beguile, 

And  rest  the  future  landscape  o'er. 
The  future  !  —  who  its  tale  may  tell?  — 

But  for  it  we  've  nor  doubts  nor  fears, 
And  like  our  life  that 's  past  so  well, 

We  '11  try  another  twenty  years. 
tug.  15lh,  1858. 


36   x  WHOLE-SOULED   FELLOWS. 

WHOLE-SOULED    FELLOWS 

"  SPEAKING  of  this  class,"  said  Dr.  Spooner,  "  I  am 
delighted  to  acknowledge  their  excellence,  and  would 
go  far  to  shake  such  by  the  hand ;  but  perhaps  my  esti- 
mate of  the  whole-souledness  of  the  individual  might  be 
different  from  yours,  for  my  comprehension  demands 
quality,  as  an  essential  element  of  the  whole.  A  whole- 
Bouled  man,  as  some  of  you  seem  to  regard  it,  is  one  of 
warm,  impulsive  nature,  open-handed  and  lavish ;  quali- 
ties,! grant  ye,  that  are  essential, — for  soul  is  feeling,  and 
not  a  merely  cold  mechanism ;  but  generosity  must  be 
a  thing  of  principle  as  well  as  natural  impulse  —  the 
spiritual  man  in  harmony  with  the  natural  man.  This 
leads  to  acts  that  insure  the  title  of  whole-souled  fellow. 
In  one  case,  a  fellow  may  be  whole-souled  in  compan- 
ionship, and  spend  money  as  freely  as  water  with  you, 
but  his  soul  is  vitiated  ;  another  may  be  generous  to  a 
fault,  and  an  admiring  world  approve  him  and  say  he  ia 
a  whole-souled  fellow,  but  look  through  him  a  little,  and 
you  will  find  a  great  under-current  of  selfishness,  that, 
were  it  known,  would  detract  from  the  general  admira- 
tion. I  know  one  who  bears  the  reputation,  who  is  really 
a  very  good  fellow,  socially,  that  employs  hundreds  of 
girls  at  starvation  rates  in  the  manufacture  of  garments, 
and  makes  a  princely  salary  at  the  expense  of  their  life 
and' comfort.  Though  nominally  a  whole-souled  fellow, 
any  man  who  thus  for  his  own  gain  will  sacrifice 
others  is  egregiously  flattered  by  the  imputation.  So 
of  those  who  give  largely  of  money  that  they  cannot 
spend.  There  is  no  soul  in  it.  There  is  Graft  in  it, 
that  assumes  the  form  of  soul,  which  men  materially 
cased  regard  as  soul,  through  their  dim  spiritual  specta- 
cles. The  widow's  mite  that  was  cast  into  the  treasury 
swells  to  a  mountain,  iu  comparison  with  such  an  act. 


BEHIND   THE  SCENES.  37 

The  whole-souled  fellow  that  I  believe  in  is  he  who, 
warmed  by  natural  kindness,  blossoms  out  and  fructifies 
in  justice  and  right,  ignoring  self,  and  struggling  con- 
tinually for  human  betterment,  from  the  betterment  law 
existing  in  himself — whose  life  is  a  continued  example 
of  persistent  generosity."  Well,  what  '&  the  use  of 
talking  about  what  everybody  knows  ?  And  yet  there 
may  be  some  whole-souled  fellows  who  are  not  entitled 
to  so  generous  or  good  an  appellation. 


BEHIND    THE   SCENES. 

COULD  we  get  behind  the  scenes  of  life,  and  observe 
the  workings  of  the  machinery,  and  the  various  traps 
and  shift-ings  and  changes  that  are  taking  place  all  the 
time,  we  should  be  half  inclined  to  distrust  the  absolute 
virtue  of  much  that  passes  for  such,  and  see,  faintly  at 
least,  through  a  great  deal  of  villany,  some  good,  that 
the  removal  of  the  whiskers  and  washing  off  of  the 
paint  might  reveal.  Behind  the  scenes  and  before  them 
is  exhibited  pretty  much  the  same  thing ;  the  counter- 
feit seeming  the  real,  and  much  of  the  real  being  noth- 
ing but  counterfeit.  And,  speaking  of  going  behind 
the  scenes,  to  one  unacquainted  with  such  locality  as 
the  stage  of  a  theatre  the  first  permission  to  enter  that 
mysterious  province  is  the  open  sesame  to  many  won- 
ders ;  revealing  to  him  how  it  is  all  done :  —  how  the 
roses  of  health  and  happiness  may  glow  on  cheeks  pallid 
and  hollow  with  care ;  and  how  the  lines  of  sorrow  may 
appear,  from  the  adroit  touches  of  paint,  upon  brows 
not  yet  marked  by  a  wrinkle  ;  how  fierceness  and  malig- 
nity may  flourish  on  faces  where  the  kindest  spirit  rests, 
through  the  magic  of  burnt  cork  and  false  mustachios ; 

and  how  injured  innocence  and  rank  villany  are  allied, 
4 


38  WOMAN'S   SOVEREIGNTY. 

when  a  little  soap  and  water  bring  them  together  at  the 
close  of  the  drama !  He  sees  men  at  the  wings,  like 
special  providences,  controlling  the  different  moods  of 
scenic  life ;  here  shifting  a  house  of  comfort  and  afflu- 
ence to  a  beggar's  hut,  and  there  producing  upon  what 
was  a  "  blasted  heath  "  a  bower  of  roses.  He  sees  the 
elegance  that  from  the  front  gleamed  in  the  beauty  of 
scenic  art  transformed  to  a  mere  daub,  the  paint  appar- 
ently thrown  on  by  the  handful ;  and  architectural  mag- 
nificence but  a  mere  frame-work  of  rough  pine,  held  up 
by  props  from  behind.  It  is  a  new  emotion  to  him,  such 
a  queer  admixture  does  it  present  of  all  sorts  of  life  in 
one  little  world — the  grave  and  the  gay,  the  good  and 
the  bad,  mingling  together  with  a  freedom  of  manner 
very  different  from  the  marked  antagonism  of  the  out- 
ward presentment.  He  wanders  through  the  ins  and  outs 
and  labyrinthine  turnings  of  the  strange  place,  puzzled 
at  a  thousand  new  things,  and  half  regretting  that  the 
illusion  should  have  been  dispelled  in  whose  deception 
he  has  so  long  happily  lived. 


WOMAN'S    SOVEREIGNTY. 

WE  'RE  swayed  a  thousand  ways  by  woman's  wiles, 

And  every  day  admit  her  sovereign  power: 
We  bend,  delighted,  to  her  potent  smiles, 

We  bend  when  tears  outpour  in  plenteous  shower ; 
Her  witchery  of  grace  bows  low  our  hearts, 

Her  winning  voice  has  conquest  in  its  tone, 
We  yield  us  captive  to  th«  myriad  arts 

That  round  our  pathway  hem  us  like  a  zone. 
By  her  sweet  lips  we  swear  our  lives  away, 

We  vow  eternal  homage  to  her  eyes, 
The  raven  curl  round  her  white  neck  astray 

The  magic  of  her  power  intensifies ! 
But  most  we  bow  beneath  sweet  woman's  sway, 
When  walking  'neath  a  clothes-line  on  a  washing  day. 


PETS.  39 

PETS. 

IT  is  an  amiable  human  weakness,  is  the  love  of  pets ; 
and  the  one  who  "  crunches  "  them  in  his  heart,  as  Gruff 
and  Tackleton  did  the  crickets  on  his  hearth,  has  little 
affection  for  anything  else.  The  love  that  one  expend? 
on  pets  is  auxiliary  to  a  higher  and  holier  affection,  and 
does  not  take  from  it ;  as  it  may  be  classed  with  loves  of 
kindred  and  friends,  that  may  be  infinite  in  their  scope, 
and  yet  be  consistent  with  the  one  grand  central  affec- 
tion, and  strengthen  and  sanctify  it.  Pets  come  in  many 
forms.  The  heart  loves  dogs,  and  birds,  and  flowers, 
and  at  times  queer  objects  become  invested  with  an  in- 
terest which  almost  takes  the  phase  of  disease.  A 
sweet  little  human  pet  of  our  own,  that  now  rests  in  a 
land  where  love  is  the  life  it  Iives4  unalloyed  with  the 
pains  that  marred  it  here,  had  a  strange  proclivity  for 
toads.  The  little  creature  loved  everything  that  lived, 
but  in  the  summer-time  it  was  her  delight  to  visit  the 
garden  and  find  her  uncouth  favorites,  and  watch  their 
ungainly  movements  with  a  pleasure  that  one  might  ex- 
pend on  a  rose  or  a  canary.  A  little  book  was  published, 
a  few  years  since,  by  Grace  Greenwood,  called  "  His- 
tory of  my  Pets."  We  have  a  thumbed  and  soiled  copy 
of  that  book,  which  money  could  not  buy.  It  was 
owned  by  another  pet  of  ours,  who,  years  ago,  went 
down  the  dark  valley  and  left  us.  It  was  a  solace  to 
h'im  in  all  his  hours  of  trouble  and  pain.  The  sight  of 
that  book  mollified  his  grief,  and  his  sob«  would  subside 
to  smiles  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the  pictures.  The  fancy 
has  been  cherished  that  the  loving  spirit  still  rests 
about  the  book,  and  hence  it  becomes  a  pet  in  itself, 
sacred  from  the  contamination  of  use.  From  its  pages 
the  beautiful  brown  eyes  seem  to  look  up,  and  the  cheer- 
ful laugh  sounds  again  in  the  glee  of  delighted  child- 


40  BY  CHANCE. 

hood,  and  we  renew  again,  for  a  moment,  the  old-time 
presence,  until  the  dream  dies  in  the  light  of  material 
care,  and  the  book  is  laid  sacredly  in  its  niche  again. 
Those  pets  that  come  in  the  human  form,  how  we  cling 
to  them  and  idolize  them,  to  have  them,  alas  1  fade  from 
our  arms  in  exhalation,  as  the  dew  fades  from  the  flow- 
ers, seemingly  crushed  by  the  intensity  of  the  affection 
with  which  we  enfold  them.  But  the  heart  follows 
them,  and  we  hear  a  voice  that  speaks  comfort  to  our 
soul,  saying,  "  These  pets  ye  shall  behold  again  ! "  and 
we  still  look  in  the  way  they  have  gone. 


BY    CHANCE. 

THE  venerable  Mrs.  Partington  asked  us  the  question, 
once,  if  we  believed  that  everything  was  foreordained 
beforehand  in  advance,  and  we  were  compelled  to  an- 
swer that  sometimes  we  did,  and  then  again  we  did  n't. 
Some  time  after,  we  were  sitting  looking  over  the  papers, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  P.  stepped  in.  There 
was  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  the  old  green  umbrella  in 
her  hand.  After  welcoming  her  and  requesting  her  to 
be  seated,  she  said,  "  Well  it 's  all  lubricated  now  ;  just 
as  clear  to  me  as  crystial."  —  "  What  is  ?  "  we  queried,  a 
little  puzzled  to  know  what  she  meant.  —  "  That  about 
foreordination,  you  know,  and  chance,  and  all  that, 
which  we  were  talking  about."  —  "  Ah,  yes  ;  well,  how 
was  it  ?  "  —  "  Why,  I  'tended  the  lectur'  last  night —  one 
of  the  eternity  course."  —  "  Fraternity,"  we  suggested  ; 
"  who  spoke  ?  "  —  "  0,  Mr.  what 's  his  name  —  he  that 
made  the  refrigerator,  you  know,  for  warming  houses 
in  summer  and  cooling  'em  in  winter  —  Emerson  —  T. 
P.  Emerson." — "  You  mean  R.  W.  Emerson,"  we  hinted ; 
"  did  ho  lecture  on  refrigerators  ?  "  —  "  0,  dear,  no  * 


MRS.  PARTINGTON  AND   THE   RUSSIAN  HELFET.          41 

'twas  on  chance;  and  sich  a  lectur' !  I  thought  I'd 
heerd  lecturs  before,  but  that  succeeded  'em  all." — "  In- 
deed V  we  said,  somewhat  interested,  though  there  were 
eleven  letters  unopened  on  the  table,  "  tell  us  about  it." 
—  "  Well,"  she  continued,"  it  was  about  chance,  and  he  is 
sich  a  queer  man  that  you  have  to  watch  every  word  or 
you  can't  understand  him.  If  you  lose  one  word,  it 's 
jest  like  a  stitch  broke  in  a  seam  made  by  some  of  the 
sowing-machines  —  the  work  is  good  for  nothing.  Well, 
he  said  there  was  no  sich  thing  as  chance,  and  that  every 
thing  was  planned  out  beforehand.  And,  to  prove  it,  he 
spoke  of  a  ship  on  the  sea,  knocked  about  by  the  winds 
and  waves,  and  showed,  just  as  loosed  as  anything'  I 
ever  saw,  that  she  was  not  there  by  chance,  or  that  she 
was,  and  I  declare  I  don't  know  which."  The  old  lady 
reached  down  into  her  spacious  pocket,  and,  taking  out 
the  old  Constitution  and  Guerriere  handkerchief,  wiped 
her  specs,  as  though  she  wished  still  for  more  light, 
while  Ike  amused  himself  by  trundling  Lion  round  the 
room,  by  his  two  hind  legs,  like  a  wheelbarrow. 


MRS.  PARTINGTON  AND  THE  RUSSIAN  HELMET. 

"  Is  that  a  tropic  of  the  Chimera  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton,  pointing  to  a  Russian  helmet  that  a  friend  had 
brought  from  the  Crimea.  — "  That,  Madam,"  said  we, 
"  is  a  trophy  of  the  Crimea,  that  fearful  battle-ground, 
and  it  seems  to  bear  about  it  the  odor  of  strife  in  the 
perilous  deadly  breaches,  and  the  crash  of  contending 
forces."  She  looked  at  it  attentively.  "  Yes,"  responded 
she,  "  and  not  only  the  breeches,  but  the  rest  of  the 
uniform  besides."  It  was  evident  that  she  had  made  a 
slight  mistake. 

4* 


42  WHO   IS  VILE? 

WHO    IS    VILE? 

"  SHE  's  a  vile  creature,"  said  the  severe  woman,  look 
ing  very  red  in  the  face.  The  conversation  had  been 
upon  the  propriety  of  recognizing  one  who  had  fallen 
from  virtue,  if  fame  were  to  be  believed,  and  the  severe 
woman,  whose  purity  could  not  be  questioned,  closed 
her  side  of  the  argument  with  the  remark  commencing 
this  paragraph.  Dr.  Spooner  arose  from  the  table  and 
stepped  behind  his  chair,  as  children  do  in  schools  when 
called  upon  to  recite.  "  The  term  vile,  madam,"  said 
he,  looking  at  the  severe  woman,  "  is  a  very  strong  one 
coming  from  human  lips,  and  those  who  utter  it  should 
be  very  sure  that  they  stand  on  sure  ground  themselves. 
Because  great  imperfection  may  be  imputed  to  any  one, 
it  does  not  follow  that  the  whole  body  is  corrupt. 
There  may  be  beneath  all  this  corruption  a  stratum  of 
pure  soil,  in  which  good  seeds  may  grow,  —  in  which, 
indeed,  they  may  be  now  germinating,  —  that  may  not 
shoot  their  leaf  up  through  the  crust  of  sin  and  degra- 
dation that  keeps  them  down,  but  may  throw  out 
the  tendrils  of  an  undying  principle,  that,  deeper  than 
the  flesh,  will  one  day  find  an  outgrowth  in  other  airs, 
and  shame  those  who,  wrapj,  in  their  own  sensuous 
perfectibility,  have  not  allowed  a  spiritual  seed  to 
grow.  Vile,  indeed  1  The  expression  cornea  with  a 
poor  grace  from  any  unless  they  have  the  scale  and 
balance  by  a  special  patent  from  heaven  with  which 
to  weigh  human  wrong,  and  it  should  be  carefully 
used.  I  once  knew  a  case  where  a  good  woman  and  a 
bad  woman  made  custards  for  a  sick  person,  and  both 
met  in  the  sick  room —  the  one  with  a  proud  spirit  that 
she  was  not  like  the  wicked  one,  the  other  humble  and 
retiring,  as  if  ashamed  of  herself.  But  the  good  worn 
an's  custards  were  made  of  skimmed  milk  and  sweet- 


THE   HOUSEHOLD   GHOST.  43 

ened  with  brown  sugar,  and  the  bad  woman's  were 
made  very  deliciously;  and  the  sick  one  fancied  that  the 
souls  of  both  those  persons  were  seen  in  the  custard- 
cups  ;  and  in  the  comparative  estimate  he  found  more 
intrinsic  excellence  in  the  bad  woman  than  in  the  good 
woman,  and  believed,  as  he  still  believes,  that  many 
transgressions,  that  spring  from  human  weakness, 
will  be  forgiven,  for  the  sparks  of  love  that  may  be 
still  smouldering  deeply  within.  I  see  you  laugh  at  my 
homely  illustration ;  but  it  is  a  life-picture,  treat  it  as 
you  may.  Let  us  call  them  unfortunate,  rather  than 
vile,  and  humble  ourselves  to  regard  them  with  charity." 
The  severe  woman  looked  very  red,  but  said  nothing 
further  till  the  doctor  was  gone. 


THE    HOUSEHOLD    GHOST. 

BEING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF   A   VERT   SINGULAR  VISION   SEEN    FROM   BENEATH   THB 
BLANKETS    ON   A  COLD   NIGHT. 

WITH  a  silent  foot,  unshod, 

In  the  mystery  of  the  night, 
Light  the  flitting  phantom  trod, 

Glimmering  in  ghostly  white 

Cold  the  north  wind  blew  without, 

Scattering  terror  as  it  sped, 
Rattling  at  the  crazy  spout 

And  the  clattering  tiles  o'erhead. 

On  the  window-pane  at  hand 

Grew  the  web  the  frost-sprites  spin, 

But  't  was  very  summer-land 
Where  the  ghost  kept  ward  within. 

Here  and  there  amid  the  night 

Eye  the  mystic  form  could  trace, 
Floating  in  its  garments  white, 

With  its  anxiousJooking  face  ; 


MRS.   PARTINGTON  PATRIOTIC. 

Bending  o'er  the  nestlings'  couch 
With  a  kiss  so  sweetly  given, 

That  the  sleepers  felt  the  touch 
As  a  token  dreamed  of  heaven. 

Such  a  mighty  power  was  there  !  — 
Waking,  by  a  single  breath, 

Smiles  of  happiness  most  rare 
On  the  lips  of  sembled  death  ! 

Far  amid  life's  later  night, 

Sad  and  dark  with  sin  and  pain, 

In  its  drapery  of  white 

Will  the  phantom  walk  again. 

With  its  calm  eyes  true  and  clear, 
And  its  finger  raised  above, 

Breathing  in  the  troubled  ear 
Accents  of  a  Mother's  love. 


MRS.    PARTINGTON    PATRIOTIC. 

"  HURRA  ! "  said  Ike,  as  he  read  the  fact  in  the  papers, 
rt  here  's  O'Regan  admitted  to  the  Union."  f  A  furriner, 
T  should  jedge,"  remarked  Mrs.  Partington,  looking  very 
wisely  at  the  steam  that  rose  from  the  tea-cups  and 
formed  in  one  cloud  near  the  ceiling ;  "  but  I  'm  glad 
they've  let  him  come  in  to  enjoy  our  political  rights 
and  lefts,  and  other  perogatives.  There 's  room  enough, 
and  the  rear  of  our  institutions  should  be  distended.  I 
don't  believe  a  man  should  be  cut  off  because  he  was  n't 
born  in  this  country  for  twenty-one  years,  which  of 
course  was  n't  any  fault  of  his,  for  everybody  would  be 
born  here  if  they  could  have  their  own  auction  con 
suited."— « It  means,"  said  Ike,  "  a  new  State."—"  Well, 
child,"  replied  she,  "  the  odds  is  only  the  difference  — 
States  or  men,  't  is  all  the  same.  Let  'em  come  into  our 
grand  consternation,  where  the  eagle  shall  spread  its 


WEANING  THE  BABY.  —  HOME  MUSIC.  45 

broad  opinions  over  'em,  and  make  'em  happy  in  an  un- 
limited bondage  of  brotherhood,  like  the  Siamese  twins." 
She  had  not  taken  her  eyes  from  the  steam  that  rose 
from  the  cups,  and  joined  in  one  cloud,  that  seemed  to 
represent  the  Union  she  was  depicting.  Ike  had  a 
better  illustration,  for  he  took  the  five  preserved  peaches 
on  the  plate,  and  put  them  all  into  one. 


WEANING    THE    BABY. 

THERE  's  trouble  in  the  house,  and  Bub  in  arms 

Protests,  with  stentor  lungs  and  brimming  eyes, 
Against  this  greatest  of  his  earthly  harms, 

The  order  cutting  off  his  small  supplies. 
With  stormy  brow  —  a  tempest  in  a  bowl  — 

He  bellows  with  a  most  determined  might, 
Disclosing  fierceness  in  his  infant  soul, 

That  in  the  Infantry  may  some  day  fight. 
We  speak  of  sorrows  —  what  are  they  to  Bub's, 

And  the  maternal's,  half  disposed  to  yield  ? 
'T  is  hard  to  find,  amidst  earth's  minor  rubs, 

A  trouble  near  so  sad  as  is  revealed 
Where  the  accustomed  lacteal  rations  stop, 
And  infant  lungs,  like  Dives,  bellow  for  a  drop. 


HOME    MUSIC. 

AN  old  square  piano  —  "  Chickering,  Boston"  —  has 
occupied  a  corner  in  a  moderate  home  for  a  number  of 
years,  and  been  regarded  as  a  necessity.  It  has  been  a 
true  friend,  for  its  influence  has  ever  tended  towards 
harmonization.  However  discordant  other  elements 
may  have  been,  —  and  there  may  have  been  times  when 
some  of  the  dust  and  pins  of  life  got  in  among  the  hu- 
man organism  to  produce  temporary  jarring  and  inhar- 
mony,  —  the  old  piano  has  rung  ever  truly  and  cheer- 
fully, responsive  to  the  touch.  It  has  been  a  household 


46  HOME  MUSIC. 

pet.  Practised  fingers  have  picked  sweet  melodies 
from  it ;  but  all,  the  unskilled  as  well,  have  tried  their 
hand  at  it.  Even  the  youngest  is  great  at  fingering. 
It  has  been  a  pleasant  thing  with  him  who  is  the  osten- 
sible head  of  the  household  to  sit,  in  the  repose  of  the 
evening,  the  care  of  the  world  shut  out  with  the  closed 
curtains,  and  hear  some  one,  in  the  unstudied  grace 
and  glow  of  home  inspiration,  unlock  the  gates  of  mel- 
ody with  the  piano-keys,  and  trip  away  over  melodious 
meadow  fields  and  gather  the  humble  flowers  of  song  to 
wreathe  in  a  garland  about  the  hearth-stone — none  of  the 
lofty  and  high-studied  themes,  that  arouse  mighty  plaud- 
its where  Thalberg  or  Lang  is  their  exponent,  but  just  a 
simple  melody  or  two,  awakening  fond  memories  of  old 
times,  or  thrilling  with  the  consciousness  of  a  new  pleas- 
ure. Ah !  this  is  the  acme  of  musical  delight,  though 
there  be  those  who  revel  in  high-seasoned  opera,  and  turn 
up  their  august  noses  at  the  humble  home-strains  alluded 
to.  There  is  a  pleasure,  besides,  when  one  is  in  his 
remote  corner,  busied  with  book  or  pen,  to  have  a 
strain  come  to  him  of  some  remembered  song,  fraught 
with  gentleness  and  happiness.  His  task  is  forgotten, 
as  he  listens,  and  he  beats  time  on  his  palm,  gazing 
abstractedly  at  nothing,  and  yet  how  much  he  sees  !  No 
wonder  that  his  thought  should  run  to  rhyme ;  and  of 
late,  when  thus  held  by  a  spell,  and  diviner  melodies 
entered  his  soul  through  the  opened  doors  of  fancy, 
the  following  rhapsody  came  to  "  the  writer,"  and 
wrought  itself  in  form  upon  paper;  and  this  is  the 
guise  in  which  it  revealed  itself: 

Essence  of  love  divine  ! 
O'er  my  soul  like  the  spirit  of  wine 
Thou  stealest,  and  in  rapt  dream 
Sense  merges  in  that  stream 


HOME   MUSIC.  47 

Of  resonant  delight  we  deem  to  flew 

From  God's  own  presence,  where  we  know 

The  Harmonies  abide,  and  music  fills 

The  broad  heavens,  as  the  blood  thrills 

Through  these  terrestrial  veins  ; 

And  where  celestial  strains 

Are  thought  and  language  that  impart, 

In  quick  accord  from  heart  to  heart, 

The  golden  sympathy  which  there  obtain*  ! 

Music  !  —  0,  subtle  mastery 

That  sets  my  spirit  free 

From  the  tired  body  and  its  care, 

Which,  light  as  bird  in  air, 

Kises  upon  the  joyous  wings 

That  buoyant  melody  brings  — 

Finding  sweet  sympathy  with  flowers 

In  the  everlasting  bowers, 

And  with  fair  earthly  blooms 

That  fling  their  rich  perfumes 

Over  the  summer  days, 

And  with  the  genial  rays 

The  sun  in  his  loving  temper  sheds 

Upon  the  spring-time  flower-beds, 

And  with  bees  and  running  brooks, 

And  quiet,  pleasant  nooks, 

Where  the  birds  sing,  and  the  breeze 

Is  busy  with  the  gossipy  trees, 

And  with  all  that 's  beautiful  and  bright 

And  loving,  given  for  man's  delight ! 

I  yield  me  to  thy  power, 

Great  spirit  of  the  hour  ! 

Bound  by  thy  magic  spell, 

My  heart,  responsive  to  the  swell 

Of  thy  wild  measure,  swings 

In  its  turret,  and  my  whole  being  sings 

In  unison  with  that  which  wings 

Its  way  o'er  vibratory  strings 

Of  subtle  air,  whose  pulsings  greet 

My  ear  in  this  remote  retreat, 

As  I  list  to  mark  the  fading  feet 

Die  out  in  distance  of  the  last  cadence  sweet 


48        MBS.   PARTINGTON  AT  THE   BALLET.  —  FLOWERS. 

MBS.    PARTINGTON    AT    THE    BALLET. 

"WHEN  is  the  bally  troop  coming  on  ?"  said  Mrs.  Part- 
ington,  after  watching  the  dancers  at  the  Boston  Theatre 
about  half  an  hour.  —  "  That  is  the  ballet  troupe,"  said 
Augustus,  with  a  smile,  pointing  at  the  beautiful  sylphs 
that  were  fluttering  like  butterflies  about  the  stage.  She 
looked  at  him  incredulously  for  a  little  while,  and  said  : 
"  Well,  I  believe  in  calling  things  by  their  true  names; 
and  what  they  call  them  a  troop  for,  I  don't  see.  I 
thought  it  was  a  troop  of  horse,  such  as  they  had  in  the 
Contract  of  the  Ganges."  She  levelled  her  new  opera- 
glass  at  the  stage,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly. 
"  Well,"  said  she,  "  if  there  ever  was  anybody  that 
needed  sympathy,  it 's  them  !  Worn  their  dresses  way  up 
to  their  knees  by  dancing,  poor  creaturs  !  and  by  and 
by,  at  this  rate,  they  won't  have  nothing  to  wear."  She 
stood  beating  time  as  the  waves  of  gauze  moved  hither 
and  thither  in  illustration  of  the  poetry  of  motion, 
while  Ike  amused  himself  by  tearing  up  his  theatre-bill, 
and  putting  it  into  a  lady's  silk  hood,  which  hung  over 
the  back  of  the  front  seat. 


FLOWERS. 
DIDST  ever  think  how  simple  flowers  bloom, 

And  shed  their  beauties  on  the  summer  air, 
Each  giving  forth  its  measure  of  perfume, 

Or  gladdening  earth  by  its  effulgence  rare  — 
Unheeding  aught  that  flattering  lips  may  speak, 

Nor  taking  airs  upon  themselves  at  praise, 
Doing  their  duty  with  a  carriage  meek, 

And  cheering  all  their  little  life  of  days  ? 
No  jealous  rivalry  contention  brings, 

As  in  more  beauteous  circles  far  than  these ; 
No  pride  impels  the  blossom  as  it  swings 

To  make  some  humbler  sister  ill  at  ease ; 
But  each  one  blooms  with  its  own  charms  content. 
Nor,  if  excelled,  cares  it  a  single  scent 


INVOLUNTARY.  49 


INVOLUNTARY. 

AN  amusing  instance  of  an  involuntary  performance 
happened,  some  years  ago,  in  a  church  not  far  from 
Boston.  The  organist  was  a  splendid  musician,  but  had 
an  infirmity  with  which,  we  are  glad  to  believe,  very 
few  of  his  brethren  are  now  troubled,  —  he  would  crook 
his  elbow  after  dinner,  and  was  too  ready  to  "  look  upon 
the  wine  when  it  is  red."  It  made  very  little  differ- 
ence, however,  in  his  playing,  even  though  he  had 
dipped  in  "  potations  pottle  deep."  One  Sunday,  he  came 
to  church  remarkably  hilarious.  There  was  an  unusu- 
ally bright  sparkle  in  his  eye,  and  his  white  fingers  ran 
over  the  keys  in  most  profuse  liquidity,  producing 
sounds  that,  while  they  were  very  beautiful,  were  so 
undisguised  that  even  the  dullest  could  not  but  under- 
stand that  there  was  something  queer  about  the  organ- 
ist, and  that  their  own  solemnly-dedicated  organ  was 
playing  anything  but  the  legitimate  airs  of  their  Zion. 
People  nudged  one  another,  the  more  rigid  with  frown- 
ing looks,  some  with  surprise,  and  others,  of  the  unde- 
vout,  with  an  appreciating  grin.  The  pastor  hesitated 
when  giving  out  the  first  hymn ;  but  the  organ  never 
did  so  well,  and  redeemed  itself  from  the  obloquy  of  its 
recent  suspicious  conduct.  The  congregation  rose  for  the 
prayer,  —  the  people  did  so  in  those  days,  —  when,  just 
at  the  hush  of  the  performance,  while  all  were  intently 
listening  to  catch  the  voice  of  the  pastor,  as  it  emerged 
from  the  hoarse  whisper  of  the  opening,  the  organ  gave 
a  frightful  scream,  that  smote  the  ear  like  the  laughter 
of  fiends,  echoing  from  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
old  church.  The  pastor  stopped  in  his  prayer,  and 
opened  his  eyes ;  the  audience  turned  round,  and  every 
eye  was  bent  on  the  organ-loft.  The  organist  had  risen 
5  4 


50  SIGNS   OP  FALL. 

with  the  rest,  but  his  efforts  to  preserv  u  his  equilibrium 
had  proved  unavailing,  and  he  had  tumbled  over  upon 
the  key-board,  producing  the  fearful  "  involuntary,"  as 
he  reached  his  hands  out  to  save  himself.  Conscious 
of  the  disorder,  and  confused  by  the  looks  turned  upon 
him,  he  recovered  himself,  and,  holding  out  his  hand 
towards  the  minister,  said  in  an  unsteady  but  patron- 
izing voice,  "  Or  ri,  sir ;  drive  on  ! "  This  broke  the 
back  of  all  propriety,  and  it  was  thought  that  the  prayer 
which  followed  did  the  audience  but  little  good. 
Another  organist  was  engaged  before  the  next  Sunday. 


SIGNS   OF    FALL. 

THE  curious  •wind  comes  searching  through  the  street, 

With  boduigs  bitter, 
Whirling  around  the  quick  pedestrian's  feet 

Whole  heaps  of  litter. 

The  traders  all  withdraw  their  fragile  stock 

Of  lace  and  muslins, 
Unable  to  withstand  the  testy  shock 

Of  Autumn's  tusslings. 

Delaines  and  thibets  float  upon  the  air 

In  tempting  manner. 
And  Balmorals  are  dancing  everywhere, 

Like  many  a  banner. 

And  winter  furs  come  on  us  unperceived, 

Of  fitch  or  sable, 
And  madam  and  the  girls,  their  cloaks  achieved. 

Are  comfortable. 

And  little  Tommy  takes  his  winter  boots 

From  where  he  's  thrown  them  ; 
Alas  !  he  tries,  and  finds  that  neither  suits, 

For  he  's  outgrown  them. 


IKE'S  SPEING   MEDICINE.  61 

The  vine  looks  sickly  on  the  trellis  high,  — 

The  leaves  all  curling, 
And  every  breeze  that  hastens  rudely  by 

Seta  them  to  whirling. 

The  old  spout,  hanging  by  a  single  nail, 

Laments  and  mutters, 
As  if  in  meek  remonstrance  with  the  gale 

That  threatening  utters. 

The  summer  birds  have  left  their  breezy  haunt 

Among  our  branches, 
And  moved  upon  their  regular  annual  jaunt 

To  warmer  ranches. 

Huge  heaps  of  coal  defile  the  sidewalk  way, 

And  we  —  confound  'em  !  — 
Must  o'er  their  yielding  heights  a  path  essay, 

Or  travel  round  'em. 

And  many  bills  thrust  in  their  leech-like  length, 

With  items  fearful, 
Testing  the  purse  whose  corresponding  strength 

Is  never  near  full. 

The  biting  airs  the  shrinking  flesh  appall 

By  sharp  incisions, 
And  everything  proclaims  the  approach  of  Fall, 

Except  provisions. 


IKE'S    SPRING    MEDICINE. 

"  ISAAC,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Partington,  \ 
in  the  morning,  as  Ike  bounded  into  the  room,  jumped 
over  a  table,  kicked  down  a  chair,  and  concluded  with 
turning  a  somerset,  by  which  operation  he  succeeded 
in  knocking  two  plates  from  the  dresser.  "  What  ails 
you  ?  Are  you  possessed,  or  what  ?  Such  abolitions 
of  feelings  are  not  pretty."  There  was  a  severity 
in  her  tone,  and  she  stood  looking  at  the  boy  through 
her  spectacles,  as  a  pair  of  Lutheran  windows  might 


52  PARTING. 

look  down  on  a  Bantam  chicken.  Ike  stopped  as 
she  spoke,  but  looked  up  roguishly  in  her  face,  while 
he  replied,  "  Did  n't  you  tell  me  to  take  my  Drim- 
stone  and  molasses  three  mornings,  and  then  skip 
three  ?  This  is  the  first  morning  to  skip,  and  I  'm  a 
doing  of  it."  The  dame  smiled  slightly,  as  she  replied, 
"  You  must  be  more  apprehensive  in  going  through  the 
world,  or  you  may  get  apprehended,  my  dear.  It  would 
make  you  too  sulfurious  to  take  your  spring  medicine 
every  morning,  so  I  thought  you  might  pass  over  three 
mornings."  —  "  Shouldn't  I  be  a  Jew,"  said  Ike,  feeling 
the  shape  of  his  nose,  "  to  passover  three  mornings  ?  " 
Mrs.  Partington,  whether  she  was  aware  of  the  atrocity 
or  not,  said  nothing  further,  and  Ike  and  Lion  went  out 
for  a  roll  on  the  grass. 


PARTING. 

WE  speak  of  parting  o'er  the  opening  grave 

Where  weary  nature  finds  a  fitting  rest, 
The  while,  to  anxious  doubts  and  fears  a  slave, 

Dire  anguish  clouds  the  sunshine  of  the  breast ; 
We  speak  of  parting  when  we  bid  farewell 

To  some  tried  spirit  kindred  with  our  own,  , 
And  'gainst  the  fortune  doth  the  heart  rebel 

Through  whose  obtrusion  those  we  prize  have  flown ; 
But,  0  !  how  feebly  does  the  word  convey 

The  thought  of  that  black  severance  of  fate, 
When  those  we  've  loved  have  torn  themselves  away, 

And  merged  their  friendship  'neath  the  clouds  of  hate ' 
That  living  death,  from  dull  indifference  born, 
That  knows,  to  follow  it,  no  resurrection  morn. 


ASSIMILATION.  53 

ASSIMILATION. 

A  WORD  about  diet  —  the  matters  that  we  eat,  and 
their  effects  upon  us.  We  are  made  from  the  dust  of 
the  earth,  not  by  being  shaped  in  the  human  mould  and 
pushed  upon  the  stage  to  enact  our  part,  but  by  eating 
dirt-pies,  made  up  in  the  several  forms  of  beef  and 
mutton  and  vegetables,  and  grow  to  our  limit  of  phys- 
ical life  by  the  accretions  of  dust,  in  some  form  or 
another,  that  we  pick  up  as  we  go  along.  This  is  all 
that  it  amounts  to,  and,  however  we  may  disguise  it 
with  nice  condiments,  and  lay  claim  to  a  higher  origin 
than  dust,  the  fact  is,  nevertheless.  Whether  in  form 
of  choice  wines  or  rich  preserves,  or  dishes  whose  del- 
icacy is  the  acme  of  desire,  it  resolves  itself  to  this. 
The  question,  then,  comes  up,  like  Sam  Weller's  of  the 
red-nosed  man,  with  regard  to  the  particular  kind  of 
vanities  that  he  preferred,  which  sort  of  dust  is  best  ? 
Here  is  a  chance  for  division,  where  individual  tastes 
will  take  issue.  The  lovers  of  beef  and  the  lovers  of 
macaroni  will  contend  for  the  mastery,  —  the  animal 
and  the  vegetable.  It  is,  we  think,  an  established  fact 
that  a  man  partakes  of  the  nature  of  what  he  eats.  The 
man  who  eats  beef,  for  instance,  becomes  of  most  oxlike 
and  sinewy  ponderosity,  according  to  this  rule,  while 
he  who  partakes  of  the  delicate  flesh  of  the  marsh  night 
ingale  must  become  indued  with  the  flexibility  of  a 
dancing-master.  Feasters  upon  wild  game  and  swift* 
fish  are  fast  men,  those  who  cotton  to  pop-corn  are 
remarkably  snappy  in  conversation,  while  those  who 
indulge  in  apples  or  acid  articles  may  be  known  by  the 
acerbity  of  their  character.  Narrowing  the  rule  down 
to  sausages,  those  who  fancy  this  sort  of  food  are 
remarkable  for  no  particular  trait,  though  their  conduct 


54:  COMPARISON.  —  MALAPROPOS. 

is  somewhat  highly  seasoned  with  a  strong  tendency  to 
the  sage.  It  is  not  ascertained  that-  eating  tomatoes 
will  induce  redness  of  the  cheeks,  or  parsley  any  par- 
ticular facility  for  learning  grammar,  or  walnuts  any 
higher  aspirations ;  but  this  much  we  may  be  sure  of, 
that  gross  feed  is  inimical  to  clear  thought,  and  modera- 
tion in  diet  is  a  great  helper  to  spiritual  and  intellectual 
advancement. 


COMPARISON. 

I  SAW  a  Nun,  upon  a  day,  who  moved, 

In  queer  attire  clad,  and  eyes  cast  down ; 
As  though  to  breathe  God's  air  were  task  unloved, 

I  gathered  from  the  shadow  of  her  frown. 
Beside  her  walked  a  maiden  bright  and  fair,  — 

A  lovely  one,  with  cheeks  of  ruddy  hue  ; 
Young  loves  lay  nestling  in  the  twining  hair, 

That  round  her  head  in  sweet  luxuriance  grew. 
A  smile  was  on  her  lip,  a  contrast  great 

With  the  unbending  parchment  of  the  face 
That  by  her  gloomed,  and  on  her  seemed  to  wait 

The  blest  attendants  of  a  loving  grace. 
If  which  were  holiest  I  were  called  to  say, 
The  holiness  of  beauty  would  decide  the  day. 


MALAPROPOS. 

( I  DECLARE,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  as  Miss  Waggles, 
the  daughter  of  the  green  .  grocer,  looked  in  upon  her 
in  the  full  feather  of  extreme  fashion ;  "  you  look  as  if 
you  had  just  come  out  of  the  upper  drawer,  and  smell 
as  sweet  as  the  balm  of  Gilead."  Miss  Waggles  smiled, 
smoothed  down  her  stiff  silk, — just  bought,  —  and 
tossed  her  head  daintily,  on  the  back  of  which  hung  the 
new  bonnet  that  «he  had  come  in  on  purpose  to  show 


How  long  is  it,  Dear,  since  it  was  dyed  and  turned  ?     P.M. 


MRS.    PABTINGTON   ON   SUEPEISE   PARTIES.  55 

"  Does  that  calico  wash,  dear  ? "  asked  the  old  lady, 
without  taking  her  spectacles  from  her  forehead.  She 
did  not  see  the  blush  that  suffused  the  Waggles  as  the 
green  grocer's  daughter  informed  her  that  it  was  silk. 
"  Dear  me,"  exclaimed  she,  taking  hold  of  it ;  "  so  it  is ; 
how  well  you  have  kept  it !  It  looks  as  good  as  new. 
If  some  girls  had  worn  it,  it  would  have  all  been  in  rags 
before  now.  How  long  is  it,  dear,  since  it  was  dyed 
and  turned  ?  "  — "  It  is  new,"  said  Miss  Waggles,  sup- 
pressing a  hoop  and  extending  a  spiteful  feeling  at  the 
same  time.  — "  Is  it,  indeed?"  responded  the  dame. 
"  Well,  my  visionary  organs  do  deceive  me  so,  that  1 
believe  that  I  am  growing  near-sighted ;  but  are  you 
going  to  have  a  new  bonnet  to  match  ?  "  This  was 
putting  the  agony  on  too  thick ;  it  was  the  grain  that 
broke  the  back  of  the  camel.  Miss  Waggles  remem- 
bered that  she  had  a  sudden  engagement  and  rose  to 
go,  and  a  strange  smile  played  around  the  mouth  of 
Mrs.  Partington  as  her  visitor  sailed  out  of  the  door 
like  a  line-of-battle  ship.  Ike  watched  her,  and  thought 
what  fun  it  would  be  to  see  her  go  up. 


MKS.  PARTINGTON  ON  SURPRISE  PARTIES. 

"  THEY  'RE  all  very  well,  surprise  parties  are,"  said 
Mrs.  Partington,  laying  her  knitting-work  in  her  lap, 
and  putting  her  specs  up  on  the  roof  of  her  cap. 
"  They  're  all  very  well  where  folks  are  prepared  for 
'em ;  where  they  have  the  sandwiches  and  cold  ham  all 
cut  and  dried,  with  the  lemonade  in  the  goblins,  and  the 
coffee  in  the  tureen  all  ready  to  be  turned  out;  but 
where  they  come  like  an  army,  hungry  as  bears  and 
hypothenuses,  and  ready  to  eat  one  up,  with  no  pro- 


5£  INDIVIDUALITY. 

visions  made  or  cooked  for  'em, —  heaven  help  us !  it  is 
trying.  People  may  smile  as  much  as  they  may,  ana 
say  they  are  dreadful  glad  to  see  'em,  and  all  that ;  but 
my  opinion  is  that  they  would  be  glad  to  see  'em  a 
good  way  off,  all  the  time.  But  when  they  carry  things 
with  'em,  as  they  do  to  ministers,  and  surprise  'em 
with  donations  of  doughnuts  and  silver  plates,  that  is  a 
different  matter.  When  our  minister  lost  money  in 
railroad  shares,  that  cut  him  off  short,  his  perish  gin  him 
a  surprise  party,  and  helped  him  along  surprisingly. 
They  are  good  when  they  're  managed  like  that."  She 
stopped  as  a  beam  of  reflected  sunshine  came  into  her 
eyes  with  blinding  force,  filling  her  with  surprise,  as  the 
sun  lay  by  the  west ;  but  could  she  have  seen  the  sly 
look  which  Ike  bore,  on  the  opposite  corner,  as  he 
thrust  a  piece  of  looking-glass  into  his  pocket,  she  would 
have  no  longer  wondered.  That  boy  was  evidently  a 
party  to  her  surprise. 


INDIVIDUALITY. 

"  I  LOVE  to  stand  at  the  street  corners,"  said  Dr. 
Spooner,  as  he  was  standing,  with  his  cane  behind  him, 
on  which  he  was  leaning,  looking  up  and  down  the 
street.  "  Did  the  fact  never  occur  to  you,"  continued  he, 
"  that  every  one  of  those  persons  moving  before  you  was 
an  individuality,  an  atomic  component  in  the  great  ag- 
gregated humanity,  and  yet  an  isolation,  a  microcosmatic 
existence  in  a  world  of  existences  ?  "  He  looked  at  us  a 
moment,  as  if  expecting  an  answer.  Overwhelmed  by 
the  profundity  of  the  question,  we  remained  silent, 
y  Yes,"  continued  he,  lifting  himself  up  by  his  cane, 
V  each  individual  is  an  individual  world.  All  the  love, 


MISAPPBEHENS10N.  57 

hope,  ambition,  hatred,  and  devotion,  revealed  in  the 
grand  macrocosm  before  us — the  world  —  is  enacted  in 
each  little  globe  that  moves  by  us,  —  forming  the  micro- 
cosm—  the  individual.  It  is  a  grand  study,  sir.  Man, 
abstractly  considered,  is  a  broad  sweep  of  the  human 
horizon  with  the  glass  of  truth ;  individually  considered, 
the  telescope  is  reversed,  —  revealing  man  infinitely 
less,  but  still  the  same.  I  have  stood  here,  by  the  hour, 
reading  the  faces  that  have  moved  by  me  as  the  planets 
move  round  the  sun,  presenting  varied  phases,  —  one  lit- 
tle world  presenting  the  mirthful  phase,  another  the  sad, 
another  the  anxious,  another  the  fierce,  —  but  how  dis- 
tinct and  beautiful  the  individuality  !  At  such  times  I 
think  of  the  music  of  the  lines  describing  the  '  solemn 
silence '  with  which  the  planets  revolve, 

'  Forever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.' 

These  sing  to  me  in  their  distinctness  and  silence,  and  " 
—  A  boy  passing  at  the  time  touched  the  Doctor's  cane, 
and,  it  being  just  when  he  was  drawing  himself  up  to 
give  emphasis  to  his  sentence,  he  fell  backward,  with 
considerable  violence.  He  smiled  as  he  gathered  him- 
Belf  up.  "  Human  weakness,"  said  he,  "  may  fall,  but 
eternal  truth  must  stand." 


MISAPPREHENSION. 

"  COMMON  TATERS  ! "  said  Mrs.  Partington  to  herself,  as 
she  waked  out  of  a  little  nap  in  which  she  had  been 
thrown  by  a  soporific  preacher.  "  What  has  com- 
mon taters  to  do  with  the  Gospel?"  The  preacher 
had  alluded  to  some  commentators,  the  odd  sound  of 
which  tickled  her  ear  and  wakened  her.  "  Common  ta- 


58  HOME  MUSIC. 

ters!"  she  continued;  "well,  all  sorts  of  taters  are  bad 
enough,  and  many  of  'em  are  rotten  clean  through ;  and 
if  he  is  calling  his  hearers  such  names,  heaven  knoAvs 
where  he  '11  stop.  Common  taters,  indeed  !  I  '11  send 
him  a  peck  of  uncommon  ones  to-morrow,  and  show  him 
that  all  of  'em  an't  alike."  She  left  the  house  with  a 
very  indefinite  idea  of  what  he  meant,  but  determined 
to  set  him  right  on  the  potato  question. 


HOME    MUSIC. 

Music,  in  the  concert-room,  in  the  theatre,  in  the 
church,  is  very  excellent.  In  loving  oneness  with  it, 
the  spirit  is  lifted  up  and  made  better  through  its  influ- 
ence. But  it  is  at  home  that  the  influence  of  music 
exerts  its  greatest  power,  where  from  lips  that  we  love 
<5ome  the  sounds  of  song  in  home  strains,  that  fill  the 
house  with  celestial  harmonies.  When  the  day's  endeav- 
or is  over,  and  the  mind,  harassed  with  care,  seeks 
the  relief  of  home ;  then,  when,  in  slippers,  we  dissolve 
connection  with  the  world  for  a  time,  and  shut  it  out 
with  the  closing  shutters,  and  we  longing  pray  for  the 
nepenthe  that  shall  lull  us  into  forgetfulness,  for  a  brief 
season  at  least,  of  perplexing  and  vexatious  business, 
steals  in  upon  us  the  voice  of  wife  or  child  in  some 
sonnet  of  domestic  tenderness,  and  we  melt  to  tears,  as 
its  mellifluous  note  trembles  upon  the  sensitive  ear  like 
the  song  the  angels  sing.  Blessed  exorcist  of  blue  de- 
mons is  this  domestic  song.  How  they  vanish  in  the 
clouds  that  leave  the  brow  and  the  heart !  The  room  is 
redolent  with  the  frankincense  of  cheerfulness  thrown 
abroad  from  melodious  censers  by  the  invisible  agen- 
cies, who  surround  us  with  constant  surprises  of  good, 


HAEVEST    HYMN.  59 

and  love  to  abide  with  us  when  we  open  our  hearts  to 
them. 

"  But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 
And  hear  the  household  jar  within." 

Enchanting  power  of  domestic  song !  Greatest  and 
best  of  instrumentalities  !  The  magnificence  and  stately 
grandeur  of  genius  may  sound  on  loftier  strings,  but  in 
the  littleness  of  song,  the  sweet  wood-notes  of  home 
delight,  the  heart  finds  its  truest  solace,  and  asks  for 
nothing  more. 


HARVEST    HYMN. 

GOD  of  the  harvest !  unto  Thee 
With  grateful  sense  we  bend  the  knee, 
While  to  thy  throne  our  thanks  arise, 
The  full  heart's  earnest  sacrifice. 

God  of  the  Seasons  '  God  our  trust! 
Thy  loving  kindness  from  the  dust 
Has  quickened  with  a  living  birth 
The  flower  and  fruitage  of  the  earth. 

Thy  care  has  sent  the  sun  and  rain 
To  ope  the  bud  and  swell  the  grain ; 
Thy  lavish  hand  has  filled  our  store, 
Till  with  thy  gifts  it  runneth  o'er. 

0,  may  our  hearts,  dear  Father,  be 
A  field  devoted  more  to  thee, 
Wherein  may  never  dare  intrude 
That  poisonous  weed  —  ingratitude! 

The  seasons,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Thy  constant  love  and  goodness  show ! 
0,  may  they,  like  the  sun  and  showers, 
Call  forth  our  souls'  divinest  powers! 


60  MRS.   PARTINGTON   ON  HORTICULTURE. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON    ON   HORTICULTURE 

"  So  you  take  an  interest  in  the  science  of  the  soil?  " 
said  the  neighbor,  leaning  over  the  gate,  as  he  saw  Mrs. 
Partington  with  a  bran-new  garden-trowel,  she  had 
bought  of  Curtis,  hovering  over  some  plants  that  she 
was  endeavoring  to  "  set."  She  arose  from  the  dust  of 
the  earth,  as  though  so  great  a  question  should  be 
answered  perpendicularly,  and,  wiping  her  hands  on  her 
apron,  said,  smilingly  as  an  open  dandelion-blossom, 
"  Some."  —  "  You  have  many  fine  varieties,  I  see,"  con- 
tinued the  neighbor  ;  "  they  display  excellent  taste.''  — 
"They  smell  better  than  they  taste,"  replied  she. 
"  Some  helly-o-tripes,  over  there,  are  very  odious."  — 
"  Many  fuchsias  ?  "  asked  the  neighbor.  —  "  Some  con- 
fusion," replied  she  ;  "  but  as  soon  as  the  borders  are 
deranged  I  think  it  will  be  very  ambiguous.  I  do  love 
to  see  things  growing !  I  think  that  is  the  beauty  of  a 
garden,  don't  you  ? "  The  neighbor  assured  her  that 
he  thought  very  much  as  she  did,  and  deemed  a  garden 
that  had  nothing  growing  in  it  must  be  a  very  dreary 
place.  "A  perfect  desert  of  Sarah,"  said  the  dame, 
breaking  in  like  a  sunbeam  on  a  fog. — "  Are  your  plants 
not  too  near  together?"  the  neighbor  asked.  — "  0, 
no,"  she  replied ;  "  they  are  more  sociable  when  they 
..are  near  together,  and  there 's  no  room  wasted.  It  is 
very  pleasant  to  have  grounds  of  one's  own  to  culti- 
vate ;  and,  if  the  cats  don't  tear  it  up,  my  garden  will 
bloom  by  and  by  like  a  Paradox."  She  struck  the 
trowel  in  an  upright  position,  like  a  note  of  admiration, 
as  she  concluded,  and  the  neighbor  went  along.  The 
cats  trouble  the  old  lady's  gardening  operations,  though 
Ike  has  bought  more  than  four  quarts  of  torpedoes  tc 
throw  out  at  them. 


A  BIT   OF  NONSENSE.  61 


A    BIT    OF    NONSENSE. 

THE  sun  was  brightly  shining  down, 

And  there  I  saw  him  stand ; 
Upon  his  brow  a  darkling  frown, 

A  lantern  in  his  hand. 
Anon  he  moved  along  the  track, 

And  every  face  did  scan ; 
I  thought  the  cynic  had  come  back 

To  find  an  honest  man. 

"  Ha  !  old  Diogenes,"  cried  I, 

"  This  light  your  search  bespeaks; 
But  is  it  here  as  vain  to  try 

As  'mong  the  ancient  Greeks  ? 
Is  honesty  a  thing  as  rare 

As  when  in  Athens'  street 
You  first  began  your  lamp  to  bear 

The  precious  gem  to  meet  ?  " 

He  turned  about  and  grimly  stood, 

And  held  his  lamp  to  me ; 
I  marvelled  at  his  surly  mood, 

Such  impudence  to  see. 
Said  he,  "  Old  chap,  you  've  quit*  mistook,- 

I  an't  the  one  you  s'pose ; 
I  'm  he  who  has  to  overlook 

The  gas-pipes  when  they  're  froze. 

"  But  this  I  '11  tell  you  while  I  can, 

That  you  may  heed  as  true  : 
Whene'er  I  want  an  honest  man, 

I  shall  not  trouble  you." 
I  marvelled  more  such  words  to  get 

From  that  disgusting  clown, 
And  took  my  tables  in  a  pet, 

And  wrote  the  rascal  down. 
6 


62  CHARACTER.  —  SELF-RESPECT. 

CHARACTER. 

How  many  gleams  of  character  a  man  gives,  without 
Saying  a  word,  by  outward  involuntary  indications  I 
The  vane  does  not  show  which  way  the  wind  blows 
with  more  certainty  than  do  the  little  idosyncrasies  of 
exterior  habit  denote  the  quality  of  the  interior  man. 
It  was  the  remark  of  some  one  that  a  man  of  sense 
could  not  lay  down  his  hat  in  coming  into  a  room,  or 
take  it  up  in  going  out,  without  discovering  himself  by 
some  peculiarity  of  the  motion.  You  may  dress  a 
boor  up  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  but  the  boor  will 
reveal  itself.  So  will  the  gentleman,  even  through 
rags.  He  need  not  speak  to  do  this.  The  Lord 
Duberlys  will  declare  by  their  acts  the  primitive  shop- 
man, even  though  their  tongues  be  tied  by  never  so 
many  conventional  prescriptions.  A  gentleman  moves 
invariably  as  to  the  manner  born,  which  education  may 
scarcely  impart.  He  holds  his  title  direct  from  the 
hand  of  Nature,  and  finds  a  living  voucher  for  it  in  the 
educated  character,  which  combines  urbanity,  dignity, 
good  sense,  and  kindness,  irrespective  of  dollar  con- 
sciousness. 


SELF-RESPECT. 

SELF-RESPECT  is  an  excellent  thing,  but,  like  many 
other  excellent  things,  it  is  susceptible  of  being  over- 
done. It  sometimes  takes  the  form  of  a  disease,  and 
runs  to  self-inflation,  on  the  one  hand;  or,  if  poor,  to 
self-immolation  on  the  altar  of  pride.  People  have 
starved  to  death  rather  than  confess  to  being  poor; 
and  very  often,  if  we  could  lift  the  veil  from  many 
homos,  we  should  find  bitter  distress  that  friendship 


LOVE.  63 

and  love  would  have  been  glad  to  relieve,  had  not 
pride  shut  friendship  and  love  out  of  its  confidence. 
Minds  so  affected  call  for  pity.  Beneath  the  exterior 
of  cheerfulness,  and  prosperity,  and  hope,  the  darkest 
despair  is  lurking.  The  heart  hardens  in  the  aching  of 
ever-present  misery,  and  feeds  on  its  silent  bitterness. 
Such  pride,  were  it  rational,  would  be  the  height  of 
wickedness  and  folly.  Of  what  use  are  friendship  and  love 
unless  they  can  be  appealed  to  for  sympathy  and  aid  in 
the  dark  hour !  In  them,  if  rightly  regarded,  are 
deposits  which  may  be  drawn  upon,  and  will  not  be 
refused,  when  the  trial  comes.  This  is  the  case  if  we 
are  true  to  the  principles  of  friendship  and  love,  and 
from  a  just  appreciation  make  our  deposit,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  proper  institution,  as  we  would  make  a  money 
deposit.  The  right  to  receive  aid  where  the  one  ask 
ing  it  has  ever  been  ready  and  willing  to  be  drawn 
upon  at  sight,  is  no  more  a  compromise  of  pride  than 
would  be  the  asking  for  one's  own  that  had  been 
loaned. 


LOVE. 

LOVE  is  divine, —  unselfish,  asking  naught, 

But  winning  it  by  the  attractive  force 
Of  generous  trust  and  sweet  unfearing,  fraught 

With  the  grace  of  tenderness  to  mark  its  course. 
Harshness  and  doubt  cannot  abide  with  love. 

Doubt  is  from  selfishness,  and  that  can  ne'er 
Yoke  with  the  sentiment  that  from  above 

Was  sent,  which  Scripture  sayeth  casts  out  fear. 
Love  has  no  limit,  —  't  is  the  God  in  man, 

Broad,  universal,  deep,  and  evermore 
The  same,  as  when  the  stars  their  song  began 

Of  sweet  accord,  when  Time  creation  bore. 
0,  could  we  feel  what  Love  is,  passion  free, 
Then  God  the  good,  indeed,  with  us  would  throned  be ! 


64  FRENCHMAN'S  LANE. 


FRENCHMAN'S   LANE.* 

'TwAS  a  brave  old  spot,  and  deep  was  the  shade 
By  the  fast-locked  boughs  of  the  elm-trees  made, 
Where  the  sun  scarce  looked  with  his  fiery  eye, 
As  he  coursed  through  the  burning  summer  sky, 
Where  breezes  e'er  fanned  the  heat-flushed  cheek,  — 
Old  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

Most  lovely  the  spot,  yet  dark  was  the  tale 

That  made  the  red  lips  of  boyhood  pale, 

Of  the  Frenchman's  doom,  and  the  bitter  strife, 

Of  the  blood-stained  sward,  and  the  gleaming  knife, 

Of  the  gory  rock  set  the  wrong  to  speak, 

In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

But  the  grass  sprung  green  where  the  Frenchman  fell, 
And  the  elder-blossoms  were  sweet  as  well, 
And  the  pears  grew  ripe  on  the  branches  high, 
And  the  bright  birds  sang  in  the  elm-trees  nigh, 
And  the  squirrels  played  at  their  hide  and  seek 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

The  blessed  shade  on  the  green  sward  lay, 
And  quiet  and  peace  reigned  there  all  day ; 
The  fledglings  were  safe  in  the  tall  elm  tops, 
More  safe  than  the  pear-trees'  luscious  crops ; 
For  the  pears  were  sweet,  and  virtue  weak, 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

But  at  times  when  the  night  hung  heavily  there, 

And  a  spirit  of  mystery  filled  the  air, 

When  the  whispering  leaves  faint  murmur  made, 

Like  children  at  night  when  sore  afraid, 

Came  fancied  sounds  like  a  distant  shriek 

In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

And  gleaming  white  at  times  was  seen 
A  figure,  the  gloomy  trees  between, 

•  Frenchman's  Lane  was  the  scene  of  a  fearful  murder,  where  a  sailor 
belonging  to  the  French  fleet  that  lay  at  Portsmouth,  N.  II.,  nearly  a  cen- 
tury ago,  was  found  with  hia  throat  cut.  Hence  its  name,  and  the  mystery 
connected  with  it 


FRENCHMAN'S  LANE.  65 

And  fancy  gave  it  the  Frenchman's  shape, 
All  ghastly  and  drear,  with  wounds  agape  ! 
But  fancy  played  us  many  a  freak 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek : 

For  lovers'  vows  those  dark  shades  heard, 
Their  sighs  the  slumbering  night-air  stirred, 
And  the  gleaming  muslin's  hue,  I  ween, 
Was  the  ghostly  glimpse,  the  limbs  between  t 
There  was  arm  in  arm  and  cheek  by  cheek 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

Ah,  blissful  days  !  how  fleet  ye  flew, 

Ere  from  life  exhaled  its  morning  dew, 

When  children's  voices  sweet  echoes  woke, 

That  often  the  brooding  stillness  broke, 

As  the  meadow  strawberry's  bed  they  'd  seek, 

Through  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

Those  days  have  long  been  distant  days, 
Recalled  in  memory's  flickering  rays, 
And  the  boys  are  men,  with  hearts  grown  cold 
In  the  world  whose  sun  is  a  sun  of  gold, 
And  their  voice  no  more  in  music  will  speak 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

And  Frenchman's  Lane  has  passed  away  : 
No  more  on  its  sward  do  the  shadows  play ; 
The  pear-trees  old  from  the  scene  have  passed, 
And  the  blood-marked  stone  aside  is  cast, 
And  the  engine's  whistle  is  heard  to  shriek 
In  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 

But,  true  to  ourselves,  we  shall  ever  retain 
A  love  for  the  green  old  Frenchman's  Lane, 
And  its  romance,  its  terror,  its  birds  and  bloom. 
Its  pears  and  the  elderblow's  perfume,  — 
And  a  tear  at  times  may  moisten  the  cheek 
For  Frenchman's  Lane,  up  by  Islington  Creek. 
6*  5, 


66  THE  FIRST  SUIT. 

THE    FIRST    SUIT. 

NOT  at  law,  good  friends.  — We  mean  the  boy's  first 
suit  of  clothes,  as  he  emerges  from  the  semi-fix  of 
boyhood  into  the  realization  of  frock-coat,  vest,  pants, 
and  boots,  and  walks  out  among  men,  a  man,  in  his  own 
opinion.  Indeed,  it  might  not  be  safe  for  one  to  insinu- 
ate that  he  was  any  longer  a  boy ;  and  even  parental 
rule  is  materially  restricted,  in  view  of  the  consequence 
assumed  with  the  clothes.  What  an  air  of  exaltation 
marks  his  steps  as  he  moves  along !  and  he  looks  at 
everybody  that  passes  as  if  expecting  to  hear  some 
remarks  about  his  improved  appearance ;  for,  of  course, 
he  thinks  they  are  all  looking  at  him.  He  will  not 
exactly  cut  his  former  acquaintances,  who  remain  in 
jackets,  but  he  will  let  them  know  their  places.  There 
is  an  impassable  gulf  of  broadcloth  now  between  them, 
and  theirs  is  but  a  satinet  condition,  that  can  properly 
claim  no  sympathy  with  his.  He  looks  at  the  young 
ladies  now  patronizingly,  and  has  a  halt-idea  of  regret 
at  the  killing  nature  of  his  attractions,  wondering  which 
of  the  number  he  shall  select  as  his  particular  flame. 
His  habits  change.  He  talks  now  in  a  different  key, 
and  his  childish  treble  is  no  longer  discernible.  Ho 
thrusts  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  fingers  his  keys 
in  a  maturity  of  style  that  receives  universal  admira- 
tion. He  speaks  of  his  father  as  "  the  governor,"  of  hi? 
mother  as  "  the  old  lady,"  of  his  grown-up  sisters  a? 
"  the  girls ;  "  and  of  his  brothers,  two  or  three  years 
younger  than  himself,  as  "  the  small  fry,"  telling  Tommy, 
with  considerable  authority,  to  black  his  boots  for  him, 
and  Mary  Jane  to  adjust  his  neck-tie.  He  soon  learns 
to  say  "  us  men  "  with  the  greatest  freedom.  Such  are 
the  first  steps  in  progressive  manhood,  too  often  marred 


MORAL   TENDENCY.  67 

by  rowdyism  in  the  secondary  stages,  where  impudence 
is  mistaken  for  smartness. 


MORAL   TENDENCY. 

"  WHERE  is  your  little  boy  tending?"  asked  the  good 
man,  as  he  was  inquiring  of  Mrs.  Partington  with 
regard  to  the  proclivities  of  Ike,  who  had  a  hard  name 
in  the  neighborhood.  He  meant  the  direction  for  good 
or  ill  that  the  boy  was  taking.  "  Well,"  said  the  old 
lady,  "  he  is  n't  tending  anywhere  yet.  I  thought  some 
of  putting  him  into  a  wholesome  store  ;  but  some  says 
the  ringtail  is  the  most  beneficious,  though  he  is  n't  old 
enough  yet  to  go  into  a  store."  —  "I  meant  morally 
tending,"  said  her  visitor,  solemnly,  fetraightening  him- 
self up  like  an  axe-handle.  —  "  Yes,"  said  she,  a  little 
confusedly,  as  though  she  did  n't  fully  understand,  but 
did  n't  wish  to  insult  him  by  saying  she  did  n't ;  "  yes, 
I  should  hope  he  'd  tend  morally,  though  there 's  a 
great  difference  in  shopkeepers,  and  the  moral  tender- 
ness in  some  seems  a  good  deal  less  than  in  others,  and 
in  others  a  good  deal  more.  A  shopkeeper  is  one  that 
you  should  put  confidence  into ;  but  I  've  always 
noticed  sometimes  that  the  smilingest  of  them  is  the 
deceivingest.  One  told  me,  the  other  day,  that  a  calico 
would  wash  like  a  piece  of  white  ;  and  it  did  just  like 
it,  for  all  the  color  washed  out  of  it."  — "  Good-morn- 
ing, ma'am,"  said  her  visitor,  and  stalked  out,  with  a 
long  string  attached  to  his  heel  by  a  piece  of  gum  that 
had  somehow  got  upon  the  floor  beneath  his  feet. 


68  SYMPATHY  WITH  RASCALS. 

SYMPATHY   WITH   RASCALS. 

BYRON  says,  "  a  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous 
kind,"  and  we  sometimes  are  half  inclined  to  accept  this 
as  the  reason  for  a  latent  and  deep-seated  sympathy  we 
entertain  for  rascals.  The  confession  causes  rs  no 
shame,  as  we  think,  if  there  is  one  class  of  men  more 
than  another  that  needs  sympathy,  it  is  these.  The  prin- 
cipal reason  for  this  is  that  they  receive  none.  The 
rascal  —  the  legitimately-recognized  and  found-out  ras- 
cal —  stands  alone,  comparatively.  A  woman  or  two, 
in  the  form  of  mother,  wife,  or  sister,  may  cling  to  the 
rascal,  and  love  him  better  that  he  is  debased,  and  fol- 
low him  to  the  scaffold,  may  be,  but  beyond  this  he  is 
alone.  Rascals  have  no  sympathy  with  each  other 
beyond  a  mere  sense  of  mutual  danger,  and  the  master 
of  them  all  leaves  them  in  the  lurch  just  as  they  most 
need  his  help.  The  antecedents  of  rascals  are  to  be 
looked  at,  and  herein  is  much  cause  for  sympathy. 
They  were,  perhaps,  born  rascals  by  psychological  en- 
tailment,  and  could  n't  help  it  any  more  than  they  could 
help  being  squint-eyed  or  club-footed ;  or,  perhaps,  by 
wrong  influences,  —  insidious  and  hard  to  be  resisted, 
—  the  best  qualities  of  their  minds  became  perverted, 
and  were  led  to  run  in  the  wrong  channel.  From  the 
very  earliest  indications  of  his  rascally  proclivities, 
every  hand  is  raised  against  the  rascal,  and  society 
"  puts  into  every  honest  hand  a  whip  to  lash  the  rascal 
naked  through  the  world."  The  law  is  against  him,  and 
his  life  is  literally  fenced  with  constables'  poles  and 
policemen's  batons.  His  only  teacher  is  his  fear,  and 
his  only  preacher  the  criminal  judge.  Of  course,  this 
sympathy  only  extends  to  the  detected  rascals.  There 
are  many  great  rasrals  who  never  get  found  out.  These 


•Non  antondez,"  said  he  again,  still  smiling  at  her,  and  turning  awaj  at  the  cranK. 
"  Not  in  tM)  dayb,"  she  niosed.     P.  6P. 


ORGANIC.  69 

only  should  be  detested,  —  the  devourers  of  widows' 
houses,  the  disturbers  of  the  poor,  the  extortioners,  the 
slanderers,  —  but  not  one  spark  of  sympathy  should  be 
extended  to  them.  It  is  to  the  wicked,  hunted,  be- 
nighted, fated,  tempted,  and  fallen  man  that  the  sym- 
pathy belongs,  who  has  such  odds  against  him,  —  who, 
with  Ishmaelitish  instinct,  has  his  hand  raised  against 
every  other  man,  seeing  in  all  his  enemies.  How  far  he 
is  from  happiness !  How  much  need  he  has  of  sym- 
pathy !  We  do  not  love  the  rascality  the  rascal  com- 
mits,—  that  is  ever  to  be  deprecated,  —  and  its  hideous 
character  is  another  call  upon  our  sympathy  for  the 
rascal  who  is  impelled  by  the  insidious  whisper  of  the 
devil  to  commit  it,  and  to  be  committed  for  it.  Verily, 
the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard,  and  sympathy  with 
him  is  called  for  in  the  same  degree  that  his  lot  is  hard. 


ORGANIC. 

"  WILL  you  please  to  play  Apollyon  crossing  the 
Alps?"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  reaching  out  of  her  cham 
ber  window,  as  an  organ-man  was  turning  his  crank 
with  a  persistent  arm  beneath.  —  "  Non  entendez,"  said 
he,  looking  up,  and  smiling  at  her. — "  Can't  you  play  it 
in  less  than  ten  days  ?  "  replied  she,  in  an  elevated  key. — 
"  Non  entendez,"  said  he  again,  still  smiling  at  her,  and 
turning  away  at  the  crank. — "Not  in  ten  days,"  she 
mused ;  "  I  suppose  he  means  it  will  take  more  than  ten 
days  to  learn  it  so  as  to  play  it  exceptionably."  She 
gave  Ike  a  five-cent  liece  to  carry  down  to  him. 


70       SCRATCHING   FOB  A  LIVING.  —  ODORLESS   ROSES. 

SCRATCHING    FOB    A    LIVING. 

MR.  NIGHTHEWIND  is  a  utilitarian.  Everything  around 
nim  has  to  scratch,  as  he  expresses  it.  He  had  to 
scratch,  he  says,  to  get  along,  and  he  means  that  every- 
thing else  shall,  that  he  controls.  Mr.  Bounderby  was 
not  more  exultant  or  boastful  of  his  beginning  than  was 
Nighthewind  of  his  scratching.  A  morning  caller  found 
Mr.  N.  out  in  the  yard  in  his  dressing-gown,  busily 
engaged  with  his  hens,  chasing  them  from  corner  to 
corner,  and  acting  by  them  in  a  very  mysterious 
mariner.  "  What  are  you  doing  ? "  said  his  visitor, 
thinking  him  a  little  mad.  —  "  Doing  ?  "  said  he ;  "  why, 
these  hens  "  —  shying  a  stick  at  a  big  rooster  —  "  won't 
scratch,  as  I  had  to ;  and  1 7m  determined  they  shall 
scratch  for  a  living.  They  are  so  pampered  with  luxu- 
rious feed  that  they  don't  seem  disposed  to  scratch. 
Shoo  !  you  rascals !  why  don't  you  scratch  ?  "  and  Mr. 
Nighthewind  went  again  into  tie  energetic  demonstra- 
tion ;  but  so  obstinate  are  hens  that  they  did  n't  seem 
to  profit  by  it. 

ODORLESS    ROSES. 

A  ROSE  of  rarest  beauty  met  my  view, 

Half  in  the  verdant  dewy  foliage  lying  ; 
I  strove  to  reach  it,  but  too  high  it  grew, 

And  the  fair  flower  escaped  my  earnest  trying. 
At  last,  a  ladder  gained,  I  plucked  the  prize, 

And  deemed  myself  well  paid  for  toil  expended ; 
Alas !  I  found  it  only  pleased  the  eyes,  — 

No  fragrant  odor  with  its  beauty  blended ! 
And  then  this  moral  crossed  my  vision's  disc: 

That  there  are  human  roses  brightly  blooming, 
For  which  men  neck  and  peace  together  risk, 

But  find,  when  gained,  no  gentle  heart-perfuming,  — 
No  breathing  sweets  amid  the  flower  they  've  won, 
And  feel  the  sense  of  being  severely  "  done." 


THE    PRITCHARD    HEIRS. 

CHAPTER   I. 

THE  venerable  Pritchard,  for  a  thousand  years,  more 
or  less,  head  of  the  firm  of  Pritchard,  Smead,  &  Raikes, 
merchants,  had  finished  his  business  on  a  pleasant 
Saturday  evening,  in  the  summer  before  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century,  and  retired  to  his  old  home- 
stead, which  he  had  occupied  for  a  great  number  of 
years,  and  which,  like  himself,  was  apparently  strong 
and  good  for  many  years  to  come.  He  had  lived  so 
long  in  this  house  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  a  part  of 
it,  and  was  in  complete  sympathy  with  its  brick  and 
mortar  components,  though  to  all  else  it  was  a  stupid 
old  pile  enough,  —  a  ghostly  and  ghoulish  thing,  —  that 
the  timid  heard  strange  sounds  issue  from,  and  hastened 
by  with  all  celerity.  It  was  brimful  of  odd  closets 
and  odd  traps,  the  uses  of  which  had  outlived  their 
generation  ;  and  it  was  said  that  a  secret  communication 
existed  inside,  with  underground  passages,  conducting 
to  the  garden  behind  the  house,  and  that  the  house  had, 
in  its  day,  served  as  the  head-quarters  of  an  expert 
smuggler,  who  drove  a  lucrative  business  through  the 
medium  of  the  viaduct  aforesaid ;  though  this  was 
merely  a  supposition,  as,  when  the  old  house  was  pulled 
down,  to  make  way  for  a  new  block  of  granite  stores, 
no  trace  of  the  secret  passage  was  to  be  found. 

Mr.  Pritchard  entered  his  house,  swinging  the  heavy 
oaken  door  to  behind  him,  which  awakened  dull  echoes 


72  THE  PEITCHARD   HEIRS. 

through  the  ancient  fabric,  hung  his  three-cornered  hat 
on  a  peg  in  the  entry,  and  deposited  his  cane  in  its 
accustomed  corner.  After  which,  he  turned  the  brass 
knob  of  the  old  parlor-door,  and  entered,  his  feet 
making  scarcely  any  sound  upon  the  sand-strewn  floor. 
He  seated  himself  in  his  arm-chair,  to  which  he  had 
been  long  accustomed,  and,  laying  back,  seemed  deep 
in  thought. 

Mr.  Pritchard  had  been  what  the  world  understands 
by  the  term,  a  good  man.  He  had  been  as  honest  as 
circumstances  would  permit ;  had  never  been  detected 
in  any  flagrant  violation  of  law  or  equity ;  his  word  had 
long  been  law  among  the  merchants  of  his  day,  and,  at 
the  close  of  a  long  mercantile  career,  marked  by  some 
shrewd  speculations,  including  the  purchase  and  sale  of 
a  large  amount  of  continental  money,  he  was  said  to  be 
worth  several  hundred  thousand  dollars.  He  had  not 
wasted  his  substance  in  riotous  living,  nor  in  extensive 
charities,  though  he  gave  freely  at  times  to  objects  con- 
nected with  public  benefit ;  and  when  collections  were 
taken  in  the  church  where  he  attended,  the  return  of 
the  contribution-box  from  over  the  door  of  the  faded 
blue-lined  wall-pew  where  he  sat  disclosed  always  a 
bill  lovingly  hovering  over  the  heads  of  the  coppers 
that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  it,  the  admiration  of  all  who 
saw  it.  Some  said  he  was  pharisaical  about  this ;  but 
we  know  there  are  envious  and  slanderous  people  in 
the  world,  and  the  very  best  of  us  are  liable  to 
feel  the  force  of  their  malignant  and  depreciating 
remarks.  With  our  statement  of  Mr.  Pritchard's  posi- 
tion and  acts,  we  leave  him  in  the  hands  of  the  reader. 
He  has  gone,  long  ago,  with  his  faults  and  his  virtues, 
and  the  opinion  of  men  cannot  affect  him  one  way  or 
the  other. 


THE  PKITCHAED   HEIRS.  73 

fie  had  been  several  years  a  widower,  his  wife  having 
died  in  giving  birth  to-  his  youngest  child,  who,  at  the 
time  of  which  we  write,  was  about  tAvelve  years  old,  a 
fair  and  sensitive  boy,  with  a  heart  full  of  loving  feeling 
for  every  one,  but  especially  for  his  father,  who  was 
very  dear  to  him,  and  who  bestowed  upon  this,  his 
youngest  born,  as  much  love  as  a  man  absorbed  by 
business  and  the  world  can  feel.  The  boy  resembled 
his  mother,  and  in  the  old  man's  tender  moments  the 
thoughts  of  her  would  stream  down  into  his  heart  with 
a  touching  influence,  and  invest  her  child  with  new 
claims  to  his  regard. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  moods  that  Mr.  Pritchard  made 
a  will.  He  had  drawn  it  up  himself,  and  had  it  wit- 
nessed by  two  men  of  substance,  one  of  whom  had 
died,  and  had  placed  it  away  carefully,  in  a  nook  which 
he  knew,  where  it  was  to  rest  until  called  for,  at  his 
death.  There  was  nothing  unusual  in  this  mode  of 
proceeding ;  but  those  who  witnessed  his  signature  — 
those  to  whom  he  necessarily  confided  the  secret  of  his 
making  the  instrument  —  had  not  the  most  remote  idea 
of  the  character  of  its  provisions,  or  who  were  to  be 
benefited  thereby.  But  the  angel  that  prompted  the 
will,  and  was  looking  over  his  shoulder  when  he  wrote 
it,  one  dark  night,  saw  the  pleased  smile  that  mantled 
his  face  as  he  recorded  the  name  of  his  youngest  son, 
Henry  —  named  for  himself. 

The  two  other  boys,  James  and  Thomas,  were  of  a  dif- 
ferent character  from  the  youngest.  James,  the  oldest, 
possessed  all  his  father's  shrewdness  and  much  of  his  own, 
and  he  early  showed  a  disposition  to  pursue  a  course 
likely  to  make  him  a  leading  mind  in  the  community. 
He  was  ambitious  and  persistent,  and  -not  too  regardful 
of  the  rights  of  others  ;  a  disposition  that  had  revealed 
7 


74  THE   PRITCHAED   HEIRS. 

itself  in  many  acts  of  youthful  littleness  towards  his 
companions  and  playmates,  which  now,  at  twenty-one, 
gave  him  the  reputation  of  being  the  sharpest  young 
man  in  town.  He  had  been  with  his  father  since  he 
had  left  school,  and  had  become  conversant  with  all  the 
modes  of  making  money  then  existing.  His  only  affec- 
tion for  any  one  was  through  their  money,  and  his 
father  formed  no  exception  to  the  rule.  The  second 
boy  was  a  dreamer,  and  exhibited  no  business  procliv- 
ities :  better  content  with  a  book  and  quiet,  at  sixteen, 
than  with  all  that  the  mart  could  afford,  obtained 
through  strife  and  endeavor. 

The  only  one  of  his  sons*  to  whom  Mr.  Pritchard  made 
any  mention  concerning  a  will  was  to  his  youngest,  as 
he  stood  by  his  knee  the  morning  after. 

"  How  shall  I  name  you  in  my  will  ? "  said  the  old 
man  to  him,  patting  him  upon  his  head.  "  Shall  I  leave 
you  enough,  so  that  when  I  die  you  will  be  rich,  and 
never  have  to  work  any,  and  will  have  plenty  of  ser- 
vants, and  coaches,  and  pretty  things,  as  you  wish  for 
them  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  up  in  his  father's  face,  and  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  as  he  said  he  would  rather  work  and 
forego  all  that  had  been  named,  so  that  his  father  might 
live ;  and  the  old  man  let  the  will  remain  where  he  had 
placed  it,  and  never  referred  to  it  again. 

We  left  him  in  his  arm-chair,  with  the  house  hushed 
and  still ;  and  he  was  sitting  with  his  head  laid  back, 
deeply  thinking,  perhaps,  of  past  times,  and  perhaps, 
thinking  of  the  future,  towards  which  he  was  hastening. 
His  two  boys  were  at  school,  his  eldest  son  at  the  store, 
and  the  housekeeper,  who  had  filled  that  position  for 
many  years,  was  in  her  chamber,  in  a  remote  part  of  the 
old  pile.  Was  Mr.  Pritchard  asleep,  that  he  sat  there 


THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS.  76 

BO  still?  It  was  unusual  for  him  to  sleep  thus; 
but  the  weather  was  warm,  and  the  cool  air  blew  in 
from  the  garden,  freighted  with  the  odor  of  flowers, 
and  imparted  somniferous  influences.  He  slept  well 
after  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and  his  breathing  was  so 
gentle  that  the  ear  was  pained  by  the  effort  to  catch  the 
tone  of  its  rise  and  fall.  His  eyes  were  open,  as  if  the 
outward  senses  were  still  awake,  though  his  weary 
spirit  was  steeped  in  forgetfulness.  Still  he  sat  there 
in  the  venerable  chair,  saved  from  other  generations, 
and  moved  not,  though  hour  after  hour  crept  by,  and 
the  stroke  of  the  old  clock  on  the  stairs  proclaimed 
the  passing  time.  It  was  a  waste  of  time  for  Mr.  Pritch- 
ard  to  sit  tbug,  when  there  were  many  papers  to  adjust 
before  bed-time,  and  a  letter  upon  the  table,  involving  a 
sale  of  many  goods,  must  be  answered  before  the  morn- 
ing mail. 

"  Father  ! "  cried  a  joyful  voice,  breaking  the  silence, 
"  Father ! " 

Mr.  Pritchard  moved  not,  though  the  voice  was  one 
that  he  loved  to  hear  when  awake.  How  soundly  he 
slept,  not  to  hear  it ! 

"  Father ! "  and  Henry  Pritchard,  awed  by  the 
silence,  moved  towards  his  father's  chair,  and  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  arm  that  lay  extended  upon  the  velvet 
covering.  A  moment  more,  and  his  cries  rang  through 
the  house,  and  "  Father  is  dead  ! "  reverberated  through 
the  still  rooms  like  a  voice  in  a  tomb.  Mr.  Pritchard 
slept  the  long  sleep  of  death ! 

There  was  a  great  parade  at  the  funeral.  The  bells 
were  tolled,  and  the  flags  upon  the  shipping  were 
hoisted  at  half-staff,  and  a  long  train  of  respectable 
mourners  followed  the  remains  to  their  last  resting- 
place.  A  funeral  sermon  was  preached  upon  the  vir- 


76  THE  PRITCHARD    HEIRS. 

tues  of  the  deceased,  and  the  papers  of  the  day  were 
full  of  eulogies  upon  the  great  man  fallen  in  Israel,  and 
elegiac  poets  sang  his  praises  in  the  most  approved 
verse.  His  death  pointed  a  moral  for  many  discourses 
for  a  long  time,  and  was  used  beneficially  to  illustrate 
the  fact  that  the  rich  and  the  great  must  die  as  well  as 
the  poor ;  and  a  superb  monument  was  erected  to  his 
memory,  bearing  upon  its  tablet  the  inscription,  "  An 
honest  man 's  the  noblest  work  of  God."  Mr.  Pritchard 
slept. 

CHAPTER  n. 

"  IT  was  always  a  mystery  to  me  what  Pritchard  did 
with  that  will,"  said  a  corpulent  old  gentleman,  with 
very  white  hair  and  a  very  red  face,  to  another  old  gentle- 
man, with  whom  he  was  conversing.  "  He  made  a  will, 
I  know,  because  I  've  got  a  memorandum  of  having 
witnessed  it  a  year  before  he  died.  Let's  see,  that 
would  make  it  more  than  thirty-five  years  ago.  How 
time  does  fly  away  !  Pritchard  was  a  very  careful  man, 
and  that  the  will  wasn't  found  seems  very  strange." 

"  Perhaps  he  destroyed  it,"  said  the  other  old  gentle- 
man. "  Some  folks  don't  like  to  think  of  dying,  and  after 
they  have  made  their  wills  they  destroy  'em.  They  're 
kind  o'  superstitional  like." 

"  Well,  Pritchard  was  n't  one  of  that  sort.  He 
knowed  he  'd  have  to  die ;  and  he  was  a  very  careful 
man.  I  do  wish  it  had  been  found.  I  guess  that  old 
est  son  of  his  would  n't  have  fared  so  much  better  than 
the  rest." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  his  shadow  ;  "  and  how  he  's  man- 
aged to  get  it  all  into  his  own  hands,  away  from  Thomas, 
who  is  worth  forty  of  him  as  a  man,  is  more  than  I  can 
tell." 


THE  PRITCHARD  HEIRS.    ^  77 

"  Why,  't  is  the  same  old  story,"  says  the  red-faced 
man ;  "  Thomas  must  foolishly  go  to  speculating,  and 
ruin  himself  in  that  way ;  and  then  his  kind  brother 
relieved  him  by  paying  half  of  what  his  share  of  the 
patrimony  is  worth.  It's  plain  enough.  Then  his 
younger  brother,  that  he  had  sent  off  in  one  of  his  ships, 
dies  in  the  Indies,  and  he  steps  in  for  the  whole  of  his 
share  on  a  pretended  will  from  Henry.  He  must  be 
dead ;  for  he  has  n't  been  heard  of  for  more  'n  thirty 
years  now." 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  other  ;  "  here  he  comes  in  his 
coach,  with  his  wife  and  daughters,  as  proud  as  pea- 
cocks." 

The  coach  rolled  by  them  as  he  spoke,  and  James 
Pritchard  bowed  coldly  to  the  old  friends  of  his  father, 
who  returned  it  for  the  father's  sake,  but  not  for  hia 
own. 

"  I  han't  got  no  patience  with  that  fellow ! "  says  the 
one  whom  the  red-faced  man  had  been  speaking  to, 
striking  his  cane  on  the  ground.  "  He  was  the  last,  I 
know,  in  his  father's  regard,  and  is  now  enjoying  all  his 
money.  It  '11  make  the  old  man  unhappy  in  his  grave, 
if  ho  knows  anything  about  it." 

"  I  guess  he  does  n't  care  about  it,"  said  the  red-faced 
man  ;  "  where  he  's  gone  our  exchange  is  n't  negotiable  ; 
but  sometimes,  as  I  pass  the  old  house,  there,  that 's 
been  shut  up  so  long,  I  almost  expect  to  see  the  old 
man  step  out  of  the  door.  I  wonder  why  James  does  n't 
tear  it  down." 

"  He  dare  not  do  it,  it  is  thought,"  replied  his  com- 
panion ;  "  for  they  say  that  the  housekeeper,  before  she 
died,  hinted  to  him  that  when  he  pulled  down  the  old 
house,  he  would  fall  with  it.  It  has  doubled  in  value 
since  Pritchard  died." 


78  THE  PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

"  Good-by,"  said  the  red-faced  man.  —  "  Good-by,"  re- 
sponded his  friend ;  and  they  separated,  rattling  the 
bricks  with  their  canes  as  they  moved  away. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  day  on  which  the  above 
conversation  occurred  that  the  family  of  James  Pritch- 
ard  were  seated  in  his  magnificent  drawing-room,  sup- 
plied with  every  luxury  that  wealth  arid  art  could  pro- 
duce. The  feet  sunk  in  carpets  wrought  on  foreign 
looms,  luxurious  couches  wooed  repose,  heavy  curtains 
gave  a  grandeur  to  the  apartment,  exquisite  pictures 
graced  the  walls,  costly  candelabras  glittered  upon  the 
marble  mantelpieces,  and  large  mirrors  multiplied  on 
every  hand  the  splendors  collected  there. 

"  James,  who  were  those  gross-looking  people  who 
bowed  to  us  as  we  were  riding,  this  afternoon  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Pritchard,  as  her  husband  sat,  with  a  half-abstracted 
air,  reading  the  paper. 

"  Old  Varney  and  Slade,"  was  his  reply,  somewhat 
abruptly,  and  a  little  harsh,  "  old  friends  of  my  father's." 

"  Well,  what  claims  have  they  upon  your  attention, 
if  they  were  only  his  friends  ?  1  think  their  presumption 
in  speaking  to  you  unbearable.  You  should  respect  your 
daughters'  feelings,  Mr.  Pritchard,  if  you  have  no  regard 
for  your  wife's,  and  not  encourage  any  such  familiarity. 
Poor  things  ! " 

"  One  was  such  a  horrid  fat  man  !  "  said  the  youngest 
daughter,  raising  her  jewelled  hands. 

"  And  the  other  was  so  terribly  gaunt ! "  said  the 
eiiier,  with  a  tone  of  horror. 

"  Why,  really,  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Pritchard,  with  a 
chagrin  that  he  vainly  strove  to  conceal,  "  you  treat  my 
father's  old  friends  with  considerable  freedom.  They 
are  very  respectable  citizens,  and,  besides,  they  are  very 
necessary  people  to  me  —  or  those  whose  good-will  1 


THE  PEITCHARD   HEIRS.  79 

would  fain  secure,  though  I  half  suspect,  from  their 
coldness,  that  I  have  n't  got  it." 

"  Very  well,"  said  his  wife  ;  "  I  suppose  it  will  always 
be  the  case  that  a  woman  is  to  have  no  voice  in  deter- 
mining who  her  husband  is  to  be  intimate  with,  though 
she  herself  must  be  circumspect  in  her  acquaintance. 
At  any  rate,  the  mother  of  your  daughters  will  try  to 
retrieve  what  their  father  loses." 

His  brow  contracted,  and  his  heart  prompted  a  bitter 
reply,  —  no  unusual  thing  in  that  household,  —  when 
the  door-bell  rang,  and  Mr.  Varney  was  announced. 
With  a  half-imprecation,  he  ordered  the  servant  to  admit 
him  ;  and,  as  the  haughty  wife  and  daughters  swept  in 
stately  pride  from  the  room,  our  fat  old  friend  of  the 
afternoon's  conversation  entered. 

Mr.  Pritchard  welcomed  him  with  a  shake  of  the  hand, 
marked  by  assumed  heartiness,  and  conducted  him  to  a 
seat,  at  the  same  time  taking  his  hat  from  his  hand. 
But  Mr.  Varney  held  to  this  most  tenaciously,  for  he 
was  a  humble  man,  and  it  rather  took  him  aback  to  wit- 
ness the  splendors  which  he  saw  around  him. 

"  Thank'ee  —  thank'ee  ! "  said  the  old  man  ;  "  your 
father,  Mr.  Pritchard,  was  a  very  polite  man  —  very.  I 
never  went  into  the  old  house  in  my  life  that  he  did  n't 
order  up  the  best  his  cellar  had  in  it,  to  drink  General 
Washington's  health." 

Mr.  Pritchard  rang  the  bell.  The  servant  appearing 
he  was  ordered  to  bring  a  bottle  of  the  best  wine  from 
the  cellar,  and  glasses. 

"  I  did  n't  speak  on  that  account,"  said  Mr.  Varney  ; 
"  but  it  sounds  so  like  your  father  !  and,  as  I  've  been 
walking  pretty  brisk,  I  will  try  a  thimble-full." 

The  wine  being  brought,  Mr.  Varney  imbibed  rather 


80  THE  PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

more  than  his  stipulated  amount,  and,  placing  his  glass 
upon  the  salver,  he  said, 

"  I  've  come  up,  Mr.  Pritchard,  in  this  odd  way,  not 
exactly  on  my  own  account.  You  see,  about  an  hour 
or  so  ago,  I  was  sitting  on  the  corner  opposite,  where 
YOUI  father's  old  house  is  standing,  when  a  stranger 
came  along,  who  stopped  and  looked  at  the  old  build- 
ing, and  asked  me  who  it  belonged  to.  He  seemed 
mightily  taken  with  it,  and  went  over  and  tried  the  door, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  go  in.  I  told  him  who  it  belonged 
to  now,  and  who  used  to  own  it.  —  Lord  bless  your 
father  !  I  can  see  him  just  as  plain  as  if  it  were 
yesterday  ! " 

Mr.  Pritchard  looked  over  his  shoulder,  with  a  trou- 
bled expression,  as  if  he  expected  to  see  some  sight 
which  he  did  n't  want  to,  and  said, 

"  Well,  Mr.  Varney,  this  man  ?  " 

"  So  I  told  him,"  continued  Mr.  Varney,  who  was 
warmed  up  by  his  wine,  "  all  that  I  knew  about  the 
family,  and  about  your  father's  making  a  will,  and  about 
my  witnessing  it,  and  about  how  it  never  was  found, 
and  much  of  the  same  sort,  when  he  asked  me  if  I  did  n't 
think  you  would  sell  the  old  house.  I  told  him  he  had 
better  come  over  here  and  inquire  ;  but  he  asked  me  to 
come,  as  I  was  somewhat  acquainted  with  the  family ; 
and  so  I  've  come." 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Varney,  you  have  done  your  errand 
very  handsomely,"  said  Mr.  Pritchard.  "  You  may  tell 
the  one  who  sent  you  that  the  old  place  is  not  to  be 
sold  ;  and  I  may  as  well  say  to  yourself  that  a  repe- 
tition of  your  visit  on  the  same  errand  would  be  very 
disagreeable  to  me." 

The  old  man  had  poured  some  wine  from  the  bottle, 
preparatory  to  taking  another  "  thimble-full ; "  but,  as 


THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS.  81 

Mr.  Pritchard  finished  speaking,  he  placed  it  upon  the 
salver  untasted,  and,  taking  his  hat,  turned  to  go.  He 
was  politely  bowed  to  the  door,  and  left  the  house  with 
a  figurative,  brushing  of  the  dust  from  his  feet  as  he 
departed. 

"  I  could  n't  have  drank  it ;  it  would  have  choked 
me,"  said  he,  the  thought  of  the  sparkling  fluid  danc- 
ing through  his  mind,  as  if  to  tempt  him  into  a  regret 
for  his  self-denial. 

Soon  after  his  departure,  the  house  of  James  Pi  itch- 
ard  was  illuminated  with  a  blaze  of  light,  and  merry 
sounds  of  music  and  the  laughter  of  glad  voices  came 
from  the  open  windows.  It  was  a  reception  night,  and 
fashionable  forms  moved  here  and  there  amid  the  splen- 
dors revealed  without.  Poor  people  went  by  on  the 
other  side,  and  looked  up  wistfully ;  but  there  was  no 
atmosphere  there,  they  knew,  wherein  the  virtue  of 
charity  could  grow,  and  they  passed  on. 

A  different  scene  was  enacting,  at  the  same  moment, 
in  an  obscure  part  of  the  town,  at  the  home  of  the  other 
of  the  Pritchard  heirs. 

Thomas  Pritchard  sat  in  his  little  parlor  alone.  He 
was  a  man  apparently  fifty  years  old,  and  his  iron-gray 
hair  denoted  that  care  had  not  passed  over  him  lightly. 
There  was  a  gentle  expression  upon  his  face,  and  an 
eye  indicative  of  great  kindness  ;  but  there  prevailed 
at  the  same  time  an  expression  of  indecision  and  of 
shrinking  back  in  his  manner,  as  if  from  extreme  sensi 
tiveness.  His  bearing  was  that  of  the  gentleman,  and 
his  kind  voice  had  a  sympathetic  and  loving  tone  that 
bespoke  a  heart  attuned  to  rightful  feelings.  He  was  a 
fine-looking  man,  intellectually,  and  his  countenance 
altogether  was  prepossessing  in  the  extreme.  Such 
was  Thomas  Pritchard.  His  home  exhibited  none  of 

6 


82  THE   PR1TCHARD   HEIRS. 

the  extravagance  of  wealth,  as  seen  at  his  brother's ; 
but,  though  humble,  an  air  of  neatness  prevailed  or 
every  side,  and  competency  was  evident  throughout. 
A  neat  and  somewhat  extensive  library  occupied  one 
side  of  the  small  parlor,  a  piano  found  a  place  upon 
the  other  side,  some  beautiful  pictures  in  water-colors 
graced  the  wall,  and  a  portrait  of  old  Mr.  Pritchard 
smiled  down  from  above  the  mantelpiece.  A  fine  taste 
was  perceptible  in  the  arrangement  of  a  vase  of  flowers 
upon  the  table,  and  a  stranger  might  guess  that  the 
hand  of  woman  had  given  the  touch  that  lent  such  an 
air  of  neat  cheerfulness  to  the  scene.  Mr.  Pritchard 
had  been  a  widower  for  several  years.  He  had  had  a 
number  of  children,  but  they  had  died,  one  by  one,  and 
none  remained  of  his  family  but  one  young  boy,  and  an 
adopted  daughter,  whose  education  he  had  mainly  at- 
tended to  himself.  Her  works  graced  the  walls,  and 
her  fingers  could  awaken  sweet  tones  from  the  in- 
strument which  held  its  place  in  the  room.  He  had 
adopted  her  at  a  time  when,  involved  in  troubles,  he 
had  scarce  a  hope  of  being  able  to  give  her  a  support ; 
and  it  was  a  source  of  joy  to  him,  ever  after,  that  he 
had  done  so.  He  had  cultivated  her  mind  himself,  and 
trained  it  in  a  manner  to  repay  him  ten-fold  for  the  care 
bestowed ;  and  now  that  his  days  were  weary  with  the 
thoughts  of  those  he  had  lost,  her  voice  broke  through 
the  gloom  to  cheer  him,  and  her  hand  ministered  to  his 
comfort,  as  though  hers  was  the  reflected  love  of  that 
which  had  fled,  returned  from  the  brighter  sphere  to 
soften  the  sorrow  of  this. 

As  we  have  said,  he  sat  alone.  The  shadows  had  fallen 
gradually  around  him,  and  he  was  scarcely  sensible  of 
the  darkness,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  beautiful 
girl  entered,  clothed  in  white,  and  bearing  a  light.  The 


THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS.  83 

sudden  glare  startled  him,  and  he  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hand. 

"  Madeline,"  he  said,  "  this  gloom  is  more  in  keeping 
with  my  present  feelings  than  the  light.  Carry  it  away, 
my  dear  child,  and  come  to  me." 

She  obeyed  him,  and,  returning  to  where  he  sat,  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  with  all  of 
a  daughter's  tenderness.  Laying  her  head  upon  his 
breast,  she  looked  up  into  his  face  as  though  earnestly 
endeavoring  to  pierce  the  gloom  resting  there,  and 
devise  some  means  for  its  banishment. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  in  a  sweet  voice,  sinking  to  her 
knee  by  his  side,  "  shall  I  sing  for  you  ?  My  voice,  you 
Bay,  soothes  you  when  your  spirit  is  troubled." 

"  No,  my  child,"  replied  he,  placing  his  hand  tenderly 
upon  her  head  ;  "  this  is  a  time  when  I  would  not  have 
my  thoughts  interrupted,  even  though  they  are  very 
sorrowful  ones.  Your  voice  is  very  sweet  to  me,  my 
child,  always.  This  is  the  anniversary  of  my  father's 
death,  and  the  thought  comes  to  me  of  the  strange  fate 
that  has  attended  his  sons  —  that  —  " 

He  ceased  ;  and  the  whole  tide  of  feeling  for  the 
wrong  done  him  by  his  brother,  and  his  own  humble 
condition,  rushed  through  his  mind,  but  found  no  ex- 
pression. He  would  not  wound  the  gentle  ears  in- 
clined towards  him  with  the  bitterness  swelling  up  in  i 
his  own  heart,  and  he  pursued  the  theme  no  further. 

"  This  home  is  too  poor  for  you,  my  sweet  girl," 
said  he,  kissing  her  forehead.  "  A  refinement  that 
would  grace  a  palace  should  not  be  hid  in  obscurity 
like  this." 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  she,  starting  to  her  feet,  "  you, 
who  have  given  me  this  refinement,  know  that  its  first 
desire  is  to  minister  to  your  pleasure.  What  other  com- 


84  THE   PRITCIIARD    HEIRS. 

panions  do  I  want  than  yourself  and  my  dear  brother 
and  the  circle  that  I  call  friends  ?  What  more  of  grati- 
fication do  I  want  than  my  music  and  my  painting  ?  ] 
desire  nothing,  but  to  make  you  happy." 

The  fond  girl  threw  herself  into  his  arms  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  father  and  daughter  momentarily  forgot  their 
sorrows  in  a  loving  embrace.  They  were  disturbed  by 
a  voice  at  their  side,  which  called  out, 

"  Hallo  !  what  courting  's  going  on  here  ?  Who  's 
this  ?  You,  Pritchard  ?  Ah,  yes,  and  here  's  my  little 
pet,  Miss  Madeline.  Bless  you,  my  darling !  That 's 
right,  love  your  father." 

This  was  all  spoken  in  the  hearty  tones  of  our  old  fat 
friend  Varney,  who  caught  Madeline,  as  she  extricated 
herself  from  her  father's  arms,  into  his  own,  and  kissed 
her  voluminously  before  she  escaped  from  the  room,  — 
vanishing  like  a  spirit  through  an  opposite  door. 

Mr.  Varney  chuckled  as  she  disappeared,  and  then, 
with  a  renewal  of  his  hearty  tone,  said, 

"  Mr.  Pritchard,  I  ask  your  pardon,  but  I  Ve  brought 
a  gentleman  here,  who  wants  to  make  some  inquiries 
about  the  old  estate  yonder,  —  if  you  know  anything 
about  its  being  sold  —  if  it 's  ever  going  to  be." 

"  We  will  have  a  light,"  said  Mr.  Pritchard,  rising. 

"  No,"  said  another  voice  beside  Mr.  Varney's,  "  no 
light  is  necessary.  I  merely  wished  to  make  inquiry  con- 
cerning the  property,  as  I  am  pleased  with  its  situation, 
and  would  like  to  purchase  it  for  building  purposes." 

"  I  have  no  longer  any  interest  in  it,"  said  Mr.  Pritch- 
ard, with  strong  emotion ;  "  my  brother  has  got  it  all 
now  (there  was  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  word  broth- 
er), and  he  will  not  sell.  He  believes  the  downfall  of 
his  fortune  depends  upon  that  of  the  old  house,  and  he 
dare  not  do  it." 


THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS.  85 

"  Has  he  no  other  brother  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Pritchard ;  "  he  never  had  but 
one,  beside  myself — a  little  brother,  who  died  abroad. 
He  was  too  good,  and  too  frail,  for  a  hard  world  like 
this." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  having  ascertained 
concerning  the  property,  I  will  now  take  my  leave. 
Good-night,  sir." 

He  passed  out  as  he  spoke,  but  Mr.  Varney  remained 
behind  a  moment,  just  to  say  that  the  stranger  seemed 
as  rich  as  a  Jew,  and  that  he  did  n't,  for  the  life  of  him, 
know  who  he  was. 

CHAPTER   III. 

TOWARD  the  close  of  the  day  after  the  one  we 
have  described,  a  pedestrian,  dusty  and  weary,  walked 
up  the  broad  street  that  led  by  the  stately  mansion  of 
the  oldest  of  the  Pritchard  heirs.  He  appeared  to  be 
upwards  of  forty  years  of  age,  stooped  in  his  gate  like 
one  prematurely  old,  and  was  evidently  a  stranger,  for 
he  gazed  at  the  lofty  dwelling  of  James  Pritchard  long 
and  earnestly,  as  if  admiring  the  beauty  of  its  archi- 
tecture. 

"  Whose  residence  is  this  ? "  he  asked  of  one  who 
was  passing  at  that  time. 

"  Pritchard's,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Pritchard's  ?  "  reechoed  the  stranger ;  "  the  name  is 
not  familiar  to  me.  Is  he  a  native  of  this  place  ?"  * 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  he  is  one  of  the  sons  of  old 
Pritchard,  the  merchant,  that  died  here  many  years  ago, 
and  he  has  contrived  to  get  all  the  old  man's  property 
into  his  hands.  Got  a  brother  over  here,  humble 
enough."  And  he  passed  on. 

The  stranger  stood  looking  at  the  house,  when  a  gay 
8 


86  THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

party  came  tripping  down  the  steps,  consisting  of  the 
two  daughters  of  James  Pritchard,  and  a  young  and 
fashionably-dressed  man,  whose  likeness  to  the  sisters 
was  sufficient  evidence  of  his  relationship.  It  was  their 
brother,  a  petted  and  only  son,  the  heir  to  the  name 
and  fortune  of  James  Pritchard.  As  they  passed  the 
stranger,  the  youngest  of  the  sisters  whispered  to  her 
brother, 

"  0,  Richard,  what  a  horrid-looking  creature  !  What 
can  he  be  staring  at  our  house  for  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,"  replied  the  young  man.  —  "  Look  here, 
old  fellow,"  said  he,  addressing  the  stranger,  "  what 
concern  have  you  about  the  house,  yonder,  that  you 
stare  at  it  so?  Do  you  think  of  a  midnight  visit  to  it, 
and  a  robbery  of  plate  ?  The  young  ladies  don't  like 
your  looks,  and  you  had  better  move  on." 

"  Don't  be  so  severe,  Richard,"  said  the  young  lady ; 
"  he  may  come  and  murder  us  in  our  beds." 

The  stranger  made  no  reply,  but  looked  upon  the 
party  with  a  strong  glance  of  contempt  as  they  moved 
away,  and  then  mounted  the  steps  that  led  to  the  ele- 
gant mansion.  He  rang  the  bell  with  a  feeble  pull, 
which  was  speedily  answered  by  a  servant  in  livery, 
who  stared  upon  him  with  a  supercilious  expression, 
and  then  demanded  why  he  had  not  gone  round  to  the 
back  door. 

"  Because  I  want  to  see  your  master,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  a  weak  voice. 

"  Well,"  replied  the  domestic,  "  go  round  to  the  back 
door,  and  I  will  call  him." 

The  stranger  walked  slowly  round  the  house,  looking 
up  at  the  windows,  as  he  went  along  the  gravelled 
walks,  that  made  his  weary  steps  more  .slow  and  pain- 
ful. Reaching  the  door  designated,  he  sat  down  upon 


THE   PRITCHARD    HEIRS.  87 

the  step  to  await  the  approach  of  the  proprietor  of  the 
mansion.  At  last  the  servant  appeared,  and  requested 
the  stranger  to  walk  into  the  library.  Mr.  James 
Pritchard  was  sitting  at  his  table  writing,  as  the  man 
entered. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Pritchard  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  is,"  was  the  reply. 

u  You  had  a  brother  Henry,  sir  ? "  continued  the 
stranger. 

"  I  had,"  replied  Mr.  Pritchard,  with  a  sudden  flush 
upon  his  face.  "  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Because,  sir,  I  knew  your  brother  in  India,  and  was 
with  him  in  his  last  moments.  He  enjoined  a  promise 
upon  me,  if  ever  I  came  to  his  native  place,  to  call  upon 
his  brothers,  assuring  me  of  a  warm  welcome.  It  is 
many  years  ago,  but  I  have  not  forgotten  the  promise. 
Fortune  has  gone  rather  hard  with  me  since,  and  I  am 
induced  to  ask  your  aid  for  my  old  friend's  sake." 

"  Indeed,  my  brother's  friend,  you  have  a  strong 
memory,  to  retain  the  matter  so  long." 

"  I  never  can  forget  him ;  he  was  so  generous.  1 
remember  that  he  left  his  share  of  his  father's  patrimony 
to  your  brother." 

"  There  your  memory  fails  you,"  said  Mr.  Pritchard, 
with  irony  in  his  tone,  rising  at  the  same  time,  and 
going  to  his  secretary.  "  This,  perhaps,  may  refresh 
your  memory."  unfolding  a  paper,  "  if  you  are  the  one 
you  represent  yourself  to  be.  The  property  is  willed 
to  me." 

And  there,  in  unmistakable  tracery,  was  the  name  of 
James  Pritchard  as  the  legatee  of  Henry  Pritchard. 
The  stranger  grew  pale  with  emotion  as  he  looked  upon 
the  paper,  while  the  legatee  watched  his  face  with  sharp 


88  THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

inspection.  Resuming  bis  composure,  he  said,  with  a 
sigh, 

"  True,  true,  time  plays  sad  freaks  with  our  memory ; 
but  is  the  other  brother  of  my  friend  —  is  your  brother 
alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  lives,"  said  Mr.  Pritchard,  with  embarrass- 
ment ;  "  but  an  estrangement  has  grown  up  between  ub. 
Family  difficulties  have  led  to  non-intercourse,  and  we 
rarely  meet.  But  our  conversation  is  growing  irksome, 
and,  as  I  have  pressing  business,  you  will  please  excuse 
me  if  I  bid  you  good-evening.  Take  this  for  your 
needs,  and,  as  a  reminder  of  painful  things  is  what  I 
cannot  bear,  owing  to  a  too  sensitive  nature,  I  beg  you 
will  not  call  again." 

He  placed  a  five-dollar  bill  in  his  visitor's  hand, 
and,  calling  a  servant,  directed  him  to  show  the  stranger 
to  the  door.  The  bill  was  quietly  laid  upon  the  corner 
of  the  table,  and  an  expression  of  pain  was  visible 
upon  the  man's  face  as  he  left  the  door  of  the  inhos- 
pitable mansion.  On  leaving  the  house,  he  strolled 
pensively  along,  apparently  unheeding  as  to  where 
he  was  walking,  when  he  entered  the  street  where 
the  old  Pritchard  house  stood  in  its  decay,  with 
its  low-browed  windows,  its  heavy  cornices,  and  its 
immense  stacks  of  chimneys.  The  stranger  paused  a 
moment  to  look  at  it,  and  moved  away  in  deep  thought. 
He  turned  a  corner  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and,  in  a 
moment  more,  was  at  the  house  of  Thomas  Pritchard. 
Knocking  at  the  door,  it  was  opened  to  him  by  the 
charming  Madeline,  who  ushered  him  into  the  parlor,  as 
he  expressed  the  wish  to  see  Mr.  Pritchard,  who  was 
not  in,  but  was  momently  expected.  The  stranger's 
humble  and  weary  appearance  won  her  sympathy,  and 
her  kind  voice  bade  him  be  seated  till  her  father's 


THE  PRITCHAED   HEIRS.  89 

return.  She  arranged  for  him  the  softest  seat,  and 
showed  such  a  solicitude  to  please  him  that  he  was 
profuse  in  thanks  for  her  kindness.  At  length  Mr. 
Pritchard  returned,  and  was  informed  that  the  stranger 
awaited  him.  Entering  the  parlor,  he  courteously 
saluted  him,  when,  rising  to  his  feet,  the  stranger  stood 
in  the  broad  light  that  broke  in  a  flood  from  the  west, 
and  held  out  his  hand.  Mr.  Pritchard  took  it,  and,  look- 
ing full  in  his  face,  with  a  disturbed  air,  asked  him  who 
he  was. 

"  Thomas  Pritchard,  don't  you  know  me  ?  "  was  the 
reply. 

The  voice  was  a  voice  from  the  dead,  —  the  voice 
broke  the  gloom  that  hung  over  a  remembrance  of 
thirty  years,  —  the  voice  was  a  renewal  of  fraternal  joy 
in  his  breast, —  and,  with  a  cry  of  "  Henry,  my  brother ! " 
ne  held  the  stranger  to  his  heart. 

The  sound  had  attracted  the  fair  Madeline  and  her 
brother  Henry  into  the  room,  who  were  made  partakers 
in  the  joy  of  the  reunion.  The  mystery  was  explained. 
He  had  been  very  ill  in  India,  and,  in  the  belief  that  he 
was  about  to  die,  had  made  a  will  bequeathing  his  por- 
tion of  his  father's  estate  to  his  brother  Thomas,  whose 
name,  as  he  had  just  seen,  had  been  erased,  and  that  of  his 
elder  brother  substituted.  The  vessel  to  which  he  was 
attached  had  sailed,  leaving  him,  as  it  was  supposed,  to 
die.  Reviving  soon  afterwards,  a  rich  native  of  the 
country,  attracted  by  his  friendless  condition,  had  taken 
him  to  his  own  home,  where  he  had  been  cared  for  with 
the  greatest  tenderness,  and  his  life  saved  by  the  most 
unremitting  attention.  He  at  last  so  ingratiated  him- 
self that  the  old  man  adopted  him  as  his  son,  he  taking 
the  name  of  his  new  father.  His  remembrance  of  home, 
at  first  vivid  and  mingled  with  regretful  feelings  at 
8* 


90  THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

leaving  the  spot  he  loved  so  well,  became  dimmed  by 
the  lengthening  absence.  Communication  between  the 
portion  of  the  country  where  he  was  and  hi»  own  land 
was  rare,  and  at  last  indifference  gained  complete  mas- 
tery over  him,  and  he  had  devoted  his  energies  to 
business.  He  had  married  young.  His  wife  and  family 
were  living,  and  had  come  with  him  to  the  adjoining 
town,  where  he  had  stopped  on  account  of  cheapness 
of  accommodation  ;  for  "  you  must  judge,  my  brother," 
said  he,  pointing  with  a  melancholy  smile  to  his  faded 
garments,  "  that  I  am  not  quite  equal  to  our  aristocratic 
brother,  with  whom  I  had  an  interview  this  morning." 

His  kind  brother  assured  him  that  he  was  most  wel- 
come to  such  as  he  had,  and  asked  a  description  of  that 
interview,  which  was  given  him.  Thomas  Pritchard 
heard  it  with  a  downcast  face,  and  when  he  raised  it 
there  was  a  cloud  upon  it;  but  no  word  escaped  him  of 
censure  for  one  who  had  done  him  such  wrong. 

"  And  now  that  I  have  come  to  life  again,"  said 
Henry  Pritchard,  in  a  lively  tone,  "  I  shall  be  the  ex- 
ecutor of  my  own  will,  and  adjust  the  slight  mistake  of  a 
name  that  has  somehow  occurred." 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  said  his  brother ;  "  let  him  have 
it  all,  as  he  has  got  all  the  rest.  I  wish  not  to  contend 
with  him  for  it." 

"  Well,  then,  for  the  present  let  it  remain  as  it  is," 
said  Henry ;  "  and  for  the  present  let  me  remain  the 
stranger  that  I  was  an  hour  since,  for  a  purpose  of  my 
own.  I  will  be  your  guest  for  a  day  or  two." 

Madeline  busied  herself  in  preparing  the  evening 
meal,  and  the  Pritchard  heirs  spent  a  long  hour  at  the 
board,  talking  of  old  times  and  scenes,  and  the  thou- 
sand things  that  come  up  to  interest  those  who  have 
been  long  separated. 


THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS.  91 

"  And  now,  Thomas,"  said  Henry  Pritchard,  "  I  want 
to  get  permission  to  visit  the  old  house  again.  There 
is  a  strange  feeling  in  my  mind  with  regard  to  it.  I  am 
not  superstitious  ;  but,  if  ever  a  man  was  visited  by  a 
denizen  of  the  other  world,  our  father  has  paid  me  a 
visit.  He  came  in  a  dream,  and  I  thought  he  revealed 
the  old  room  to  me  where  he  died.  Doing  so,  he 
seemed  to  point  to  a  closet  which  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  existed,  but  without  a  word  of  explanation  he  dis- 
appeared. Three  times  the  vision  appeared  to  me,  and 
there  was  a  troubled  appearance  upon  the  face  that  dis- 
turbed me.  It  revived  the  interest  in  my  home,  and 
the  new  desire  that  brought  me  here.  How  is  this 
entrance  to  be  gained  ?  " 

"  Our  neighbor,  Mr.  Varney,  will  get  permission  for 
me,"  said  his  brother,  "  and  you  can  accompany  me." 

Mr.  Varney  was  sent  for,  and  our  old  fat  friend  came 
soon  after,  waddling  into  the  room.  He  started  as  he 
saw  the  stranger  with  Mr.  Pritchard,  who  placed  his 
fingers  on  his  lips  in  token  of  silence.  The  desire  to 
visit  the  old  hbuse  was  stated,  and  Mr.  Varney  under- 
took to  procure  the  necessary  leave  in  the  name  of 
Thomas  Pritchard.  This  he  succeeded  in  doing  the 
next  morning,  and  the  three  proceeded  together  to  the 
old  pile,  that  had  been  deserted  for  many  years. 

The  massive  oaken  door  grated  harshly  on  its  hinges 
as  the  brothers  entered,  and  their  footfalls  and  sub- 
dued voices  wakened  strange  echoes  through  the 
rooms.  It  was  with  deep  emotion  they  entered  the 
room  where  their  father  had  died.  Several  articles  yet 
remained  of  what  then  filled  it,  and  for  a  short  time  the 
main  object  of  visiting  the  place  was  forgotten  in  the 
tender  reminiscences  of  the  past  that  were  awakened. 
A.n  exclamation  from  Henry  Pritchard  at  last  attracted 


92  THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

attention,  and,  pointing  to  a  panel  in  the  wainscot,  he 
said,  in  a  whisper, 

"  The  very  spot  the  ghost  revealed  to  me  !  " 

An  examination  showed  that  the  panel  was  a  secret 
door,  secured  to  the  floor  by  small  hinges,  and  at  the 
top  by  a  spring,  which  was  hid  in  the  deep  moulding. 
The  rust  of  years  prevented  an  immediate  removal  of 
the  panel,  but  after  some  little  exertion  it  was  done, 
when  a  large  amount  of  old  papers  was  found,  and  in 
a  case  by  itself  a  paper,  labelled  "  THE  LAST  WILL  AND 
TESTAMENT  OF  HENRY  PRITCHARD." 

As  the  paper  was  unrolled,  the  eye  of  Mr.  Varney 
fell  upon  the  names  of  those  who  had  witnessed  the 
will,  and  he  shouted  out,  in  a  tone  that  made  the  old 
house  ring  again, 

"  Found,  at  last !  —  found,  at  last  I  I  told  'em  there  was 
a  will.  Found,  at  last !  '  Witness,  Simon  Varney,'  as 
plain  as  your  hand." 

The  will  was  written  in  a  clear  and  distinct  manner, 
and  the  tenor  of  it  was,  that  the  eldest  son,  James,  hav- 
ing been  fitted  for  business,  should  enjoy  his  position  in 
the  firm  of  Pritchard,  Srnead,  &  Raikes,  and  that  the 
property  should  be  equally  divided  between  the  broth- 
ers, Thomas  and  Henry  Pritchard.  The  instrument 
abounded  with  kind  expressions  for  his  children.  It 
was  thought  advisable  to  return  the  papers  to  their 
hiding-place,  and  the  panel  was  restored  as  before.  No 
sooner  was  this  done  than  the  door  opened,  and  James 
Pritchard  entered.  His  brow  was  dark  as  night,  and 
the  expression  of  his  face  cruelly  forbidding,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  assembled  group  in  the  little  low 
parlor.  He  took  no  notice  of  his  brother  Thomas,  but, 
turning  to  the  stranger,  whom  he  recognized  as  his 


THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS.  93 

visitor  of  the  day  previous,  he  demanded,  in  an  imperi- 
ous tone, 

"  By  what  right,  sir,  do  you  enter  here  without  my 
permission  ?  " 

"  By  permission  of  Mr.  Pritchard,  sir,"  was  the 
strangei  's  reply,  in  a  humble  tone. 

"  And  by  what  right  has  he  permitted  you?"  cried 
the  imperious  man,  with  increasing  violence. 

"By  my  right  as  one  of  my  father's  heirs,"  said 
Thomas  Pritchard,  in  a  voice  firm  and  distinct,  as  though 
the  occasion  had  given  him  new  powers. 

"  Then  leave,  all  of  you,"  said  he ;  "  for  the  house  is 
mine." 

"  James  Pritchard,"  said  Thomas,  with  a  firmness 
of  tone  that  was  unusual,  "  you  are  yourself  an  intruder 
here,  and  remain  but  by  our  sufferance.  Our  father 
made  a  will,  deeding  his  property  to  myself  and  our 
youngest  brother.  That  brother  lives." 

James  Pritchard  laughed  scornfully,  and  his  laugh 
sounded  fearfully  in  the  old  house. 

"  It  is  too  late  a  day,"  said  he,  "  for  such  an  assertion, 
and  assertion  is  not  proof." 

He  stamped  his  foot  as  he  spoke,  and  the  panel,  but 
feebly  secured,  fell  with  a  loud  sound  at  his  feet,  reveal- 
ing the  secret  closet. 

"  Our  father  speaks  to  you,  James  Pritchard,  from  the 
tomb,"  said  Thomas  Pritchard,  holding  the  will  towards 
him,  "  and  affirms  my  truth  ;  and  here,  by  your  side,  is 
one  from  the  grave  to  claim  his  right.  It  is  our 
brother  Henry." 

The  color  fled  from  the  haughty  man's  cheeks,  as 
though  a  ghost  had,  indeed,  risen  and  was  standing 
before  him.  He  clutched  at  the  air,  as  if  to  seize  some- 
thing with  which  to  support  himself,  and  gazed  upon 


94  THE   PRITCHARD    HEIRS. 

the  stranger  with  an  eye  in  which  hatred  and  fear 
seemed  combined. 

"  I  deny  his  identity  1 "  at  length  he  found  voice  to 
say.  "  I  deny  his  identity,  —  he  is  an  impostor !  I  have 
twenty  witnesses  of  my  brother's  death.  Your  credu- 
lity has  been  deceived.  The  will  is  a  fabrication." 

"  I  was  one  of  the  witnesses,  myself,"  said  Mr.  Var- 
ney, as  though  this  were  the  greatest  event  in  his  life  ; 
"  no  cheat,  sir  !  See  there,  '  Witness,  Simon  Vamey.' " 

James  Pritchard  left  the  house,  saying,  as  he  left, 

"  I  deny  the  will,  and  deny  the  scheme  trumped  up 
by  a  fool  and  an  impostor  to  deprive  me  of  my  right." 

The  younger  brothers  held  a  brief  conference  as 
to  what  course  to  pursue.  To  establish  their  claim 
would  require  money,  of  which  they  had  apparently 
none  at  command,  jdiile  the  one  who  was  to  contest  it 
with  them  had  abundant  means.  In  this  strait  they 
appealed  to  Mr.  Varney,  who,  after  revolving  the 
matter  for  some  time,  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  the 
one  who  had  proposed  to  buy  the  property  the  day  or 
two  before  would  advance  money  to  aid  their  cause, 
through  hope  of  obtaining  it.  He  said  this  with  a  sig- 
nificant glance  at  Henry  Pritchard,  who  nodded  in 
reply ;  and  Mr.  Varney  was  left  to  consult  with  the 
stranger,  when  he  should  see  him.  The  next  morning 
Mr.  Varney  informed  the  brothers  that  the  stranger 
would  advance  them  money  to.  any  amount,  through 
him,  though  desirous  of  remaining  unknown  in  the 
matter.  This',  seemed  to  remove  one  difficulty  from 
the  path,  and,  having  retained  eminent  counsel,  the 
cause  was  submitted  entirely  to  his  hands.  The  town 
became  interested  in  the  affair,  and  public  opinion 
divided  upon  the  question,  a  large  party  siding  with 
James  Pritchard ;  but  the  will  was  too  well  authenti- 


THE  PRITCHARD    HEIRS.  95 

cated  to  admit  of  doubt,  although  the  second  brother 
had  long  since  sold  his  right  in  the  property  uncon- 
ditionally to  the  elder,  which  shut  him  out  from  his 
interest  in  the  will,  and  the  denial  of  the  identity  of  the 
younger  seemed  hard  to  prove,  which  rendered  the  case 
apparently  a  safe  one  for  the  possessor  of  the  property. 
But  there  were  those  engaged  in  the  cause,  backed  by 
the  wealth  which  came  from  the  invisible  friend  of  the 
Pritchard  heirs,  who  met  the  fierce  contestant  of  their 
father's  will  with  a  powerful  force.  Evidence  was  intro- 
duced to  prove  the  death  of  the  young  Pritchard  in  India, 
—  the  one  who  had  brought  the  will,  —  and  the  prob- 
ability of  his  decease  argued  from  after  circumstances. 
On  the  other  side,  the  cause  was  left  to  the  evidence  of 
personal  resemblance  to  the  deceased,  attested-  by  old 
people  who  remembered  the  elder  Pritchard,  and  by  the 
memory  of  his  brother  Thomas.  After  great  difficulty 
and  the  occupancy  of  months  of  time,  the  case  was 
decided  in  favor  of  the  Pritchard  heirs.  This  decision 
was  made  at  the  close  of  a  fine  day,  and  Thomas  Pritch- 
ard, sad  at  his  success,  went  home  with  a  clouded  brow 
and  a  weary  heart.  Henry  Pritchard  had  gone  to 
inform  his  family  of  the  result. 

Since  his  return  he  had  acted  very  mysteriously  with 
regard  to  his  family.  To  the  repeated  invitations  to 
bring  them  to  his  brother's  house,  he  had  invariably 
replied  that  they  were  very  well  where  they  were,  and 
from  his  evasion  it  had  appeared  that  he  was  desirous 
they  should  remain  in  present  obscurity. 

Thomas  Pritchard  was  received  by  his  children  witt 
affectionate  regard,  and  they  learned  from  his  lips  the 
intelligence  of  his  success.  He  sat  down  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  with  the  air  o/ 
a  man  who  had  been  defeated.  A  knock  at  the  door 


96  THE  PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

aroused  him,  and  in  a  moment  more  James  Pritchard 
stood  before  him.  His  surprise  was  great.  Neither 
spoke  for  a  minute ;  at  last,  motioning  to  a  chair, 
Thomas  Pritchard  asked  his  visitor  to  be  seated. 

"  Not,"  said  he,  in  a  manner  far  different  from  that 
which  he  usually  employed,  "  till  I  am  assured,  by  my 
brother's  forgiveness  of  unbrotherly  wrong,  that  I  am 
welcome.  Thomas,  we  have  long  been  estranged.  1 
have  deeply  wronged  you  ;  and  during  this  vexed  trial 
I  have  thought  of  that  wrong.  My  father's  spirit  has 
struggled  with  me,  and  my  stubborn  heart  has  yielded. 
I  had,  before  the  decision,  resolved  to  make  reparation, 
and  have  now  come  to  express  that  determination,  and 
to  beg  your  forgiveness,  and  that  of  my  disowned 
younger  brother." 

Thomas  Pritchard  had  risen  to  his  feet  as  his  brother 
was  speaking,  and  before  he  had  concluded  he  had 
grasped  the  hand  held  towards  him,  and  pressed  it  to 
his  heart  with  a  fervent  embrace. 

"  And  you  have  my  most  hearty  forgiveness,  James," 
he  cried,  shaking  the  hand  warmly.  "  This  moment  is 
worth  more  to  me  than  all  the  wealth  of  India.  I  have 
never  been  estranged  from  you  ;  my  feelings  have  been 
true  to  you,  with  a  conviction  that  you  would  some  day 
come  back  to  brotherly  allegiance.  James,  you  are 
welcome.  I  wish  Henry  were  here  to  share  my  joy." 

TliQ  door  opened  as  he  spoke,  and  Henry  Pritchard 
entered,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Yarney,  whose  delight  in 
the  success  of  the  heirs  was  great,  in  the  importance 
that  the  witnessing  of  the  will  had  given  him.  A  blank 
expression  fell  on  his  jolly  features,  as  he  saw  in  whose 
presence  he  stood,  while  Henry  Pritchard,  with  no 
further  notice  than  a  glance,  passed  to  the  other  side  of 
the  room.  James  Pritchard  left  the  spot  where  he  was 


THE  PEITCHARD   HEIRS.  97 

standing,  and  crossed  over  gently  to  where  his  younger 
brother  was  gazing  upon  the  picture  of  his  father  upon 
the  wall. 

"  Henry  Pritchard,"  he  said,  laying  his  finger  upon 
his  brother's  shoulder,  "  your  elder  brother  asks  your 
forgiveness.  He  disowned  you  from  a  mistaken  belief, 
and  is  willing  to  repair,  as  far  as  possible,  the  injury  he 
has  done,  by  restoring,  without  further  contest,  the 
property  he  has  held  so  long,  —  unjustly,  dishonestly 
held." 

Henry  Pritchard  turned  and  looked  upon  his  brother's 
face.  Its  expression  assured  him,  and,  seizing  his 
hand,  he  shook  it  warmly.  It  was  enough.  The  Pritch- 
ard brothers  were  at  peace  ! 

Mr.  Yarney  coughed  and  fidgeted  to  attract  attention  j 
at  last,  when  wearied  with  trying,  he  spoke, — 

"  I  've  come  for  you  to  go  with  me  and  see  the  bene- 
factor who  has  befriended  you,  in  his  own  house.  He  7s 
sent  his  coach  for  you." 

The  heirs  at  once  obeyed  the  summons,  and  invited 
their  elder  brother  to  accompany  them,  which  he  as- 
sented to,  and,  getting  into  the  coach  together,  they 
drove  away.  Through  the  main  street  of  the  town  they 
passed,  towards  the  suburbs,  and,  after  riding  about 
ten  miles,  they  arrived  at  a  splendid  mansion-house, 
embowered  in  trees,  and  everything  about  it  denoting 
affluence  and  taste.  The  coach  stopped,  and  the  party 
alighted.  They  were  met  at  the  door  by  a  lady  of 
about  forty  years  of  age,  in  whose  complexion  the 
effect  of  an  ardent  sun  was  visible,  who,  in  elegant 
terms,  bade  them  welcome,  ushering  them  into  a  parlor, 
richly  but  neatly  furnished.  She  told  them  her  hus- 


98  x  THE   PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

ard  stood  before  them,  and  was  introduced  to  the 
astounded  brothers  as  "  General  de  Main,"  the  pro. 
prietor  of  the  mansion  in  which  they  then  were.  They 
had  not  missed  him  from  their  side,  and  the  surprise 
was  complete.  He  smiled  at  the  puzzled  expression 
they  wore,  while  Mr.  Varney  chuckled  and  rubbed  his 
hands  gleefully,  as  if  the  matter  was  nothing  new  to 
him,  and  he  was  aching  to  tell  all  he  knew  about  it. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  their  host,  "  in  four  capacities  :  as 
the  East  Indian  General  dt  Main,  Henry  Pritchard,  the 
unknown  benefactor  of  the  Pritchard  heirs,  and  your 
host, —  in  all  of  which  I  shall  endeavor  to  do  my  duty; 
and  this,  my  sweet  wife,  shall  make  up  for  my  deficien- 
cies." He  touched  a  bell,  and  folding  doors  unclosing, 
disclosed  a  rich  banquet,  spread  for  a  large  party ;  and 
there  assembled  were  the  family  of  their  host,  —  the 
oldest,  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-two,  and  four 
young  ladies,  of  ages  varying  from  sixteen  to  six  years, 
—  as  beautiful  as  their  mother,  and  as  vivacious  as  they 
were  beautiful.  And  there,  among  them  all,  to  the 
astonishment  of  Thomas  Pritchard,  were  the  sweet  Mad- 
eline and  his  son  Henry,  who,  through  the  good  Mr. 
Varney,  had  been  brought  there  before  them,  he 
having  transformed  himself  into  an  ancient  Ariel  to 
bring  about  results  on  which  his  heart  was  set.  He 
looked  upon  the  scene  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
great  sides  shook"  at  the  fun  of  the  thing. 

The  party  welcomed  the  guests,  and  James  Fritch- 
ard,  though  his  heart  smote  him  for  what  he  had  done, 
experienced  a  pleasure  he  had  not  known  for  years, — 
the  first  return  for  sincere  repentance.  He  was  coi 
dialiy  welcomed  by  his  brother,  and  every  attention 
shown  him  that  could  make  him  at  ease ;  and  Thomas 


THE  PEITCHARD   HEIRS.  99 

Pritchard,  in  his  new-found  joy,  made  all  happy  by  the 
magnetism  of  his  presence. 

"  And  how  could  you  so  hide  yourself  from  us  ?  " 
asked  Thomas  of  his  brother  Henry. 

"  Through  the  aid  of  my  father's  old  friend,  Varney, 
whom  I  remembered.  I  sought  him,  and  through 
him  learned  all  of  our  family  affairs,  and  proposed  the 
purchase  of  the  old  house.  Then  I  visited  you  in  the 
dark,  the  night  before  I  disclosed  myself  to  you ;  and 
the  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  me  to  preserve  my  incog- 
nito. My  friend  Varney  assisted  me  in  it  all,  and 
through  his  aid,  in  spending  my  money,  I  am  located 
here,  where  I  shall  remain  for  a  season." 

Mr.  Yarney  smiled  blandly  with  new  importance, 
and  smoothed  the  napkin  upon  his  lap  with  nervous 
delight. 

The  party  sat  long,  and  separated  with  the  promise 
of  renewed  affection,  which  promise  was  fully  redeemed. 
The  Pritchard  estate  was  settled ;  how,  the  world  knew 
not,  and  Mr.  Varney,  who  knew  all  about  it,  would  n't 
tell ;  but  things  remained  relatively  with  the  brothers 
as  before,  with  the  exception  that  Thomas  Pritchard's 
house  was  enlarged,  and  more  beautiful  pictures  graced 
the  walls,  and  more  books  swelled  the  library,  in  whicn 
he  took  delight ;  and  neater  and  more  roomy  grounds 
appeared  about  the  house,  in  which  the  fair  face  of 
Madeline  was  often  seen  of  mornings  in  the  summer 
time,  bending  over  the  blossoms  less  bright  than  the 
glow  upon  her  cheek.  And  the  blush  was  brighter 
when  young  Frank  de  Main  pressed  her  hand  and  whis- 
pered into  her  ear  tender  words,  not  unwillingly 
heard.  The  families  mingled,  although  the  haughty 
wife  and  daughters  of  James  Pritchard  reluctantly  con- 


100  THE  PRITCHARD   HEIRS. 

eented  to  associate  with  those  they  had  despised ;  but 
the  General  and  his  wealth  reconcilec1  all  difficulties, 
and  even  the  humble  Thomas,  reflecting  the  glitter, 
became  a  visitable  brother.  It  was  a  moment  of  morti- 
fication when  the  daughters  and  son  discovered  in  their 
India  uncle  the  one  they  had  feared  as  a  robber ;  but 
they  were  of  the  class  that  are  willing  to  be  forgiven, 
and  forgot  it,  as  their  uncle  seemingly  did. 

There  was  a  grand  family  party,  the  next  year,  at  the 
house  of  Thomas  Pritchard,  on  the  occasion  of  the  mar 
riage  of  Frank  de  Main  Pritchard  and  the  charming 
Madeline  ;  and  the  papers  of  the  day,  which  we  have 
consulted,  bear  testimony  to  the  gallantry  of  the  groom 
and  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  of  which  we  have  no 
doubt.  The  superb  set  of  diamonds,  given  her  by 
James  Pritchard,  was  scarcely  less  beautiful  than  the 
costly  products  of  the  India  looms  with  which  she  was 
presented  by  her  husband's  mother.  But  neither  gift 
was  so  precious  to  her  heart  as  was  the  blessing  of  her 
father,  as  he  placed  his  hand  upon  her  head  and  invoked 
upon  her  the  richest  of  heaven's  bounty  for  her  dutiful 
regard,  and  kissed  her  brow  as  the  amen  to  the  prayer. 
The  amen  was  echoed  by  Mr.  Varney,  who  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  kissed  her  vehemently,  much  to  the  dis- 
gust of  the  fashionable  portion  of  the  family,  who  looked 
with  aversion,  as  they  had  at  a  time  previously,  on  the 
horrid  fat  man.  Mr.  Varney  didn't  know. what  they 
thought,  and  did  n't  care.  He  was  as  happy  as  though 
he  had  been  made  the  possessor  of  all  the  Indies,  and 
acted  accordingly.  Some  thought  it  was  the  wine,  in 
which  he  pledged  the  bride's  health  eleven  times.  The 
last  act  of  folly  which  he  committed  was  to  punch  the 
aristocratic  Janres  Pritchard  in  the  ribs,  in  a  great  style 


DON'T  FRET.  101 

of  familiarity,  which  that  gentleman  overlooked  in  tho 
hilarity  of  the  occasion. 

The  old  house  was  torn  down,  soon  after,  by  general 
consent,  and  a  fine  block  of  stores  was  raised  upon  its 
site,  that  long  was  regarded  an  ornament  to  the  part 
of  the  city  where  it  was  located,  and  even  now,  though 
some  thirty  years  have  transpired,  is  looked  at  with 
pride  by  the  older  merchants. 

If  the  reader  see  no  other  moral  in  this  story  than 
the  simple  struggle  for  money  that  forms  its  basis,  then 
the  writer  will  feel  that  his  real  effort  has  been  over 
looked,  and  that  his  work  has  been  in  vain.  But  he 
hopes  its  true  meaning  will  have  been  observed,  and  in 
this  hope  he  leaves  in  their  hands  the  story  of  the 
PRITCHARD  HEIRS. 


DON'T    FRET. 

WHAT  is  the  use  of  fretting  ?    Better  take 

Things  coolly,  nor  allow  ourselves  to  fume  ; 
To  growl  about  it  cannot  better  make 

A  thing  that 's  wrong,  nor  darkened  spots  illume. 
We  have,  we  know,  but  little  time  to  stay, 

With  everything  around  us  to  enjoy : 
What  sense  were  it  to  waste  our  time  away, 

And  leave  the  real  gold  for  its  alloy  ? 
Fret  not,  0,  fret  not !  — be  a  jolly  soul, — 

That  is  to  say,  of  course,  be  if  you  can  ; 
Yield  not  yourself  to  anger's  fierce  control, 

But  let  good-nature's  sunshine  warm  you,  man.  — 
Now,  may  perplexing  mischief  haunt  the  life 
Of  that  performer  on  that  wretched  fife  ! 
9* 


"•02  THE  DICKY. 

THE    DICKY. 

VERY  much  of  human  happiness  depends  upon  the 
dicky,  —  more,  perhaps,  than  we  are  aware  of,  or  are 
willing  to  admit.  Harmony  is  made  to  respond  with 
the  vibration  of  its  strings,  and  those  strings  draw  at 
times  closely  about  the  heart,  as  well  as  the  neck.  We 
challenge  philosophy  to  maintain  itself  against  a  refrac- 
tory dicky-string  or  a  treacherous  button.  The  placid- 
ity of  temper  that  might  bear  a  man  along  above  and 
defiant  of  other  accidents,  shakes  to  its  centre  when 
tested  by  accidents  that  pertain  to  the  collar.  He 
becomes,  perforce,  choleric  at  once.  It  is  not  every 
one  who  knows  how  to  wear  a  dicky :  upon  some  it 
is  never  becoming,  sitting  as  ungracefully  as  the  sides 
of  a  wheelbarrow.  Such  people  adopt  the  demi-dicky, 
that  presents  the  suspicion  of  a  shirt,  but  gives  people 
a  strong  idea  that  the  wearer  is  undergoing  a  choking 
sensation.  Gracefully  worn,  the  dicky  is  eminently 
ornamental,  —  the  mirror  before  us  gives  assurance  of 
the  fact;  but  such  as  have  not  been  provided  by 
Providence  with  necks  adapted  to  the  wearing  of 
dickies,  should  never  essay  it,  but  stick  to  turn-over 
collars  instead.  Wyars  was  a  melancholy  instance  of 
the  folly  of  such  ambition.  His  head  had,  for  some 
wise  purpose,  been  placed  upon  his  shoulders  without 
the  intervention  of  a  neck,  and  he  aspired  to  wear  a 
dicky  !  But  it  was  the  sort  of  ambition  that  o'erleaps 
itself,  and  condign  punishment  attended  such  gross 
infraction  of  the  law  of  fitness.  His  dicky,  as  if  sen- 
sible of  the  folly  of  trying  to  be  respectable,  broke 
through  all  restraint ;  and,  meet  Wyars  when  one  might, 
the  dicky  showed  symptoms  of  eraticism :  now  about 
two  points  off  the  wind,  now  at  right  angles  with  the 


HEATHENISH.  103 

body,  and  one  day  he  appeared  with  both  points  of  the 
dicky  peeping  very  quizzically  from  under  the  hind  part 
of  his  hat,  he  looking  for  all  the  world  like  the  man 
with  the  turned  head.  He  gave  it  up  shortly  after- 
wards, and  now  wears  an  extended  binding  of  his  shirt 
for  a  dicky,  that  comes  up  under  his  jowls  like  a  splin- 
ter for  a  broken  leg,  keeping  his  head  in  a  perpetual 
perpendicularity,  like  a  martinet  on  parade. 


HEATHENISH. 

RADBOD,  the  pagan  chief,  had  bowed  his  heaa 

To  teachings  of  the  holy  word,  and  then 

He  came  the  last  grand  otfering  to  perform,  — 

Within  the  holy  font  to  wash  away 

The  trace  of  heathen  sin  that  yet  remained. 

He  turned  him  to  the  priest :  "  Pray  tell  me  true, 

0,  man  of  God,  where  are  my  fathers  now, 

Where  are  my  kindred,  and  the  loving  ones 

Snatched  from  my  bosom  by  remorseless  death?  " 

One  foot  immersed,  he  stood  the  fate  to  hear 

Of  those  whose  memory  still  was  priceless  held. 

"  Alas,  my  son,  they  lift  their  eyes  in  realms 

Where  unbelievers  shall  forever  dwell !  " 

Then  Radbod  said,  as  proudly  he  looked  up, 

His  dark  eye  flashing  with  the  loving  light 

That  burned  within,  an  ever-constant  flame, 

"  Where'er  my  kindred  bide,  \here  too  will  I,— 

Whether  within  the  blest  abode  of  those 

Redeemed  and  singing  their  celestial  joy, 

Or  where  the  darkness  is  forever  felt 

In  depths  of  an  unutterable  woe. 

As  God  loves  me,  so  do  I  love  my  race." 

No  more  ;  he  straightway  from  the  font  withdrew 

His  dripping  foot,  nor  could  entreaty  move 

His  faithful  soul  to  forfeiture  of  love 

And  union  with  his  kindred  in  the  land 

Where  soul  meets  soul,  —  and  so  the  heathen  died. 


104  BRINGING  UP   CHILDREN. 


BRINGING   UP    CHILDREN. 

WITH  regard  to  the  management  of  children,  said  the 
philosopher,  a  few  wholesome  rules  may  not  be  amiss. 
As  Solamon  said,  "  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child," 
it  is  your  duty,  at  the  outset,  to  impress  rpon  the 
mind  of  your  child  the  idea  that  force  alone  is  to  be 
your  measure  of  family  discipline;  but,  as  it  may  be 
troublesome  and  require  time  to  apply  the  switch,  the 
next  best  thing  is  tongue.  The  tongue  is  easily  applied, 
takes  little  time,  and  is  very  salutary.  As  soon  as  your 
children  are  up  in  the  morning,  or  get  into  the  house 
from  school,  begin  to  find  fault  with  them,  and  blame 
them  about  their  looks,  gait,  and  behavior.  Speak  to 
them  tartly,  if  you  want  them  to  mind  you ;  there  is 
nothing  like  a  good  sharp  parental  voice  in  making  a 
child  start  quickly.  It  would  be  unbecoming  weakness 
to  ask  them  to  do  what  you  wish,  and  a  tone  of  dis- 
pleased authority  is  very  efficacious  in  inspiring  feel- 
ings of  respect.  If  they  do  not  start  quickly,  —  par- 
ticularly if  a  boy  has  his  boot  half  on,  or  a  girl  her  head 
half  combed,  —  threaten  them  with  dismemberment,  de- 
capitation, or  any  other  equally  trifling  penalty,  if  they 
do  not  jump,  and  the  willing  haste  they  will  show  in 
minding  will  astonish  you.  If  children  are  teasing 
round  you  from  hunger  or  whim,  yell  at  them  lustily, 
and  threaten  them  with  whipping.  No  matter  whether 
you  execute  the  threat  or  not,  —  persevere  in  threaten- 
ing, and  after  a  while  they  may  be  led  to  believe  you 
will  do  it.  It  may  take  some  time,  but  stick  to  it.  It 
will  not  do  to  gratify  any  little  desire  of  theirs  at  once ; 
it  will  look  too  much  like  bending  from  parental  dig- 
nity. It  is  best  always  to  refuse  them  at  first,  and  work 
their  feelings  to  turbulence,  and  then  to  comply ;  this 


BRINGING  UP   CHILDREN.  105 

will  give  them  a  sense  of  their  dependence,  and  your- 
self an  opportunity  of  throwing  oil  upon  the  troubled 
waters.  It  is  a  fine  experiment,  when  well  managed ; 
and  it  is,  besides,  a  practical  application  of  the  text, 
"  through  much  tribulation,"  <fec.  If  one  of  your  chil 
dren  cry,  through  the  teasing  propensity  of  another, 
first  look  round,  as  if  searching  for  something  to  throw 
at  the  head  of  the  culprit,  then,  with  an  angry  eye,  dart 
upon  and  give  him  or  her  a  rap.  It  will  be  remembered, 
you  may  depend.  Don't  waste  time  in  counsel.  This 
would  derogate  from  the  parental  authority.  If  your 
children  are  noisy,  it  is  an  ingenious  expedient  to  feign 
extreme  distress,  and  threaten  to  go  away  or  jump  over- 
board ;  by  appealing  to  their  affections  thus  for  a  few 
times,  they  will  get  so  as  to  believe  it.  If  this  fail,  go 
up  stairs,  or  anywhere  in  the  cold,  under  pretence 
that  your  head  is  "  splitting  open  "  from  their  noise. 
If  a  child  is  disposed  to  sing,  check  it  at  once  ;  it  is  a 
boisterous  practice,  and  should  be  discouraged.  As  if 
heaven  had  not  given  it  more  use  for  its  lungs  than  a 
bird  !  It  is  a  good  way  to  cry  out  "  Stop  that  noise  !" 
It  prevents  the  formation,  by  the  child,  of  a  too  exalted 
opinion  of  its  own  vocal  ability.  The  same  rule  may 
apply,  if  the  child  is  disposed  to  dance.  What  can  be 
more  ungainly  than  a  little  child  capering  about  a  room, 
with  no  more  consideration  than  a  lamb  ?  If  a  child  is 
disposed  to  be  affectionate,  don't  return  it ;  remember 
that  we  should  not  love  the  creature  more  than  the 
Creator.  Don't  show  that  you  love  it  too  well ;  it  is 
best  to  repel  petulantly  all  little  acts  of  endearment ; 
to  encourage  a  child  in  kissing  is  apt  to  lead  to  bad 
results.  If  your  children  make  mistakes,  and  are  not 
ready  to  learn,  it  is  a  beneficial  plan  to  rail  at  them  for 
their  stupidity,  and  present  a  microscopic  view  of  their 


106  UNMET   CONFIDENCE. 

failings ;  this  latter,  particularly,  if  a  neighbor  or  play 
ma'te  chance  to  be  present.  Disparaging  comparisons 
are  very  apt  to  encourage  them  to  persevere.  Be  care- 
ful and  do  not  praise  them  for  good  qualities  they  may 
possess ;  this  would  tend  to  make  them  vain,  and  vanity 
is  sin.  Having  yourself  arrived  at  what  you  know  by 
intuition,  or  divine  inspiration,  of  course  it  is  of  no  use 
to  instruct  your  children  how  to  do  anything.  Let 
them  find  out  as  you  did.  You  will  get  along  a  great 
deal  better  in  your  management  if  you  have  some 
grandparent  or  maiden-aunt  to  assist,  especially  if  they 
take  views  opposite  to  yourself  in  everything.  The 
balance  is  thus  beautifully  preserved.  A  good  grum- 
bler is  invaluable  among  a  family  of  children;  the 
grumbler  will  prevent  their  dying  from  a  surfeit  cf 
jollity.  Depend  upon  it,  said  the  philosopher,  the 
advice  I  have  given,  if  it  be  rightly  understood  and 
rightly  applied,  may  be  made  profitable.  The  interests 
of  time  and  eternity  depend  upon  judicious  family 
training ;  and  yet  how  few  there  are  who  know  how  to 
bring  up  children  in  the  way  they  should  go  !  Almost 
all  read  the  Solomonian  injunction,  "  Train  up  a  child 
and  away  he  '11  go/'  —  and  they  go  it. 


UNMET    CONFIDENCE. 

MUCH  of  the  evil  of  life  springs  from  hiding  ourselves 
from  each  other ;  and  that  we  do  hide  ourselves  is  the 
result  of  a  want  of  confidence  in  each  other,  that  would 
allow  us  to  give  and  receive  with  kindness.  We  dare 
not  tell  one  of  his  faults,  though  they  may  be  very 
apparent,  because  we  fear  to  offend  him.  He  sets  us 
down  as  his  enemy,  at  once,  when  we  wound  his  self- 
esteem  by  intimating  that  he  is  not  infallible.  So  when 


UNMET   CONFIDENCE.  107 

others  are  spoken  of  in  whom  we  have  interest.  An 
intimation  of  their  possible  imperfection  excites  us 
against  the  one  breathing  the  suspicion.  We  know  the 
charges  are  wrong ;  we  feel  that  we  cannot  have  been 
mistaken  in  the  individuals  who  so  much  engross  our 
esteem,  and  hence  we  cast  off  those  who,  by  the  very 
act  of  daring  to  incur  our  displeasure,  have  proved  them- 
selves our  best  friends,  and  the  most  worthy  of  our 
friendship.  The  charges  may  be  false,  groundless,  but 
they  should  be  made,  in  orker  to  be  met  and  refuted,  and 
the  motive  of  their  being  submitted  canvassed,  and  its 
sincerity  established.  In  domestic  matters  the  want  of 
this  confidence  is  severely  felt.  The  tart  and  scornful 
reply  to  a  confided  thing  checks  future  candor  in  that 
direction.  No  man,  if  he  have  any  spirit,  will  incur  the 
danger  of  getting  snubbed  twice  in  the  same  way. 
Hence  when,  after  many  days,  scandal  bears  tales  to 
ears  that  should  have  heard  them  long  ago,  tears  and 
bitterness  make  a  dismal  episode  in  life,  that  never  would 
have  occurred  if  those  who  weep  had  known  the  secret 
of  securing  their  own  happiness.  An  ingenuous  spirit 
should  be  met  with  equal  openness  and  candor.  To 
cramp  such  a  spirit,  and  still  its  warmth  by  reproach,  or 
innuendo,  or  indifference,  is  a  fatal  mistake,  and  lays  the 
foundation  for  a  healthy  growth  of  misery  in  the  time  to 
come,  when  love  and  confidence  are  most  needed.  Men 
speak  in  very  severe  terms,  and  justly,  of  deserted  homes 
and  domestic  wrong ;  but,  could  they  become  acquainted 
with  the  facts  that  led  to  such  desertion  and  such  wrong, 
they  would  find,  maybe,  that  their  sympathies  are  due  in 
a  different  direction  from  that  in  which  they  have  been 
solicited.  This  is  a  lesson  which  will  admit  of  much 
thought,  and,  as  the  old  gentleman  remarked  when  he 
laced  the  boy's  shoulders  with  an  ox-goad,  we  hope  it 
will  do  good. 


108  THE  DEAD   SAILOR. 


THE   DEAD    SAILOR. 

His  sails  are  furled,  his  voyage  is  done,— 

Now  may  the  gallant  sailor  rest ; 
The  peaceful  port  his  bark  has  won, 

No  hostile  storms  shall  more  molest ; 
Life's  boisterous  course  he  has  bravely  run,— 

Lay  him  away,  with  his  worth  confest. 

Ay,  throw  above  him  the  starry  pall 
He  loved  so  well  in  his  hours  of  life ; 

He  has  seen  its  gossamer  shadow  fall 

Where  the  spirits  of  ocean  waged  their  strifci 

Has  waved  its  folds  round  earth's  huge  ball, 
His  soul  with  its  sovereign  glories  rife. 

'T  is  a  fitting  shroud,  and  he  loved  it  well, 
But  his  beaming  eye  is  glazed  and  cold, 

And  his  manly  heart  will  never  swell 
To  see  it  in  starry  pride  unfold  ; 

Yet  place  it  there,  —  its  stars  may  tell 
The  shining  deeds  of  the  sailor  bold. 

It  may  tell  the  tale  of  a  generous  heart, 
That  never  refused  a  friend's  appeal ; 

It  may  tell  of  tears  that  dared  to  start 
From  founts  that  pity  bade  unseal ; 

It  may  tell  of  a  bolder,  a  sterner  part, 
Where  duty  claimed  his  nerves  of  steel. 

All,  all  alone  !  not  a  kinsman  near 

To  see  the  earth  receive  its  own  ; 
No  gallant  messmate  by  his  bier, 

To  mark  his  frail  wreck  where  't  is  thrown  ; 
The  winds  sing  o'er  him  an  anthem  drear, 

And  the  heavens  their  tears  outpour  alone. 

But  naught  he  cares :  nor  rain,  nor  cold, 
Nor  ill  of  earth,  doth  the  body  know ; 

His  spirit  eyes  on  scenes  unfold 

Surpassing  all  he  has  known  below ; 

Around  and  above  him  are  joys  untold, 
He  ne'er  would  exchange  for  mortal  woe. 


THE   COOLIES.  109 

Then  lay  his  hulk  where  the  bright  flowers  bloom, 

When  the  bitter  winter  storms  are  fled, 
Where  the  apple-blossoms  shall  give  perfume, 

And  the  grass  its  emerald  beauties  spread, 
Where  the  stars  he  loved  shall  ever  illume     " 

With  gentle  rays  his  lowly  bed, 
And  birds  all  the  summer  long  shall  come 

And  sing  o'er  the  sailor  dead. 


THE    COOLIES. 

"WELL,  what  if  they  did?"  said  Mrs.  Partington, 
as  the  visitor  was  condemning  certain  parties  for  the 
transportation  of  coolies.  She  glanced  at  the  ther- 
mometer, as  she  spoke,  with  the  mercury  indicating 
ninety  degrees,  at  the  same  time  inhaling  a  pinch  of 
Col.  Rhoades'  rappee.  "  I  think  they  ought  to  be 
praised,"  continued  she,  "  for  trying  to  get  a  little 
coolly  anywhere,  such  times  as  these.  How  hot  it  is, 
to  be  sure !  It  is  almost  equal  to  the  horrid  zone ;  " 
and  the  old  lady  fanned  herself  energetically.  —  "  But," 
said  her  friend,  "  I  mean  the  coolies,  brought  from  the 
East."  —  "Well,"  responded  the  dame,  "it  does  seem 
like  an  interference  with  the  plans  of  Providence  to 
bring  them  here ;  but  when  the  wind  sticks  at  the 
south  all  the  time,  they  should  n't  be  blamed  for  trying 
to  get  the  east  winds  to  cool  the  people  off  with,  any- 
how." Her  friend  looked  at  her  with  compassionate 
benignity,  but  attempted  no  further  explanation,  while 
Ike  sat  endeavoring  to  make  the  sundered  parts  of  the 
old  lady's  cooler  stick  together,  as  he  had  seen  Sigiioi 
Blitz  do. 

10 


110  TALKING  HORSE. 


TALKING    HORSE. 

IT  is  very  amusing,  during  a  trotting  season,  to  ob« 
serve  the  horse-bent  of  conversation  at  the  grounds, 
and  outside,  among  those,  small  and  large,  who  are 
interested  in  horses.  It  seems  as  if  every  man  was 
thinking  horse,  and  by  sympathy  had  become  half  horse. 
Indeed,  one  might  be  excused  for  watching  the  mouths 
of  those  speaking  with  the  expectation  of  having  them 
neigh  like  horses,  as  those  who  come  from  sections 
where  lobsters  are  caught  become  so  imbued  with  lob- 
ster as  to  partake  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  excellent 
fish.  Passing  round  from  group  to  group,  it  appears 
like  hearkening  to  the  same  conversation,  divided  into 
sections.  In  each  section  the  same  matters  are  dis- 
cussed :  horse  genealogy,  horse  manners,  horse  points, 
horse  riding,  and  horse  raising — the  latter  so  frequently 
that  a  general  equine  resurrection  seems  the  main  point 
of  horse  belief.  One  would  think,  at  such  times,  that 
there  was  no  other  animal  in  the  world  than  the  horse, 
and  that  the  whole  of  human  progression,  with  its 
weight  of  moral  and  social  interests,  was  to  be  helped 
along  on  horseback,  or  upon  a  spider-web  vehicle,  weigh- 
ing but  about  seventy-five  pounds.  A  man  who  cannot 
talk  horse,  then  and  there,  is  floored  —  is  nowhere  —  is 
obsolete  —  is  done  up.  Though  he  should  speak  with 
the  tongues  of  angels  and  of  men  and  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  horse,  he  is  as  nothing.  The  merest  tyro  of 
the  curry-comb  turns  up  his  nose  at  him.  It  is  well  to 
affect  horse,  at  such  times,  though  one  may  not  know 
the  mane  from  the  tail,  or  the  snaffle  from  the  side-sad- 
dle. Some  pursue  this  course,  and  win  a  great  reputa- 
tion by  listening  and  looking.  Looking  at  a  horse 
appreciatingly  and  admiringly  is  about  half  equal  to 


PICTURES.  Ill 

speaking  about  him,  and  some  have  by  this  course  been 
able  to  pass  as  respectably  under  the  eyes  of  the  initiate 
as  though  they  were  born  and  educated  in  a  stable. 


PICTURES. 

WE  don't  care  whether  pictures  abound  in  a  house 
from  pride,  fashion,  or  taste,  so  that  they  be  there.  If 
there  is  insensibility  in  the  proprietor,  he  may  be  the 
means  of  gratifying  taste  in  others,  or  of  awakening  a 
taste  where  it  was  lying  inactive  before.  It  is  more  de- 
lightful, of  course,  where  good  taste  prompts  their  sup- 
ply ;  then  the  pleasure  of  the  exhibitor  is  added  to  the 
gazer,  be  he  never  so  humble,  and  the  two  realize  a 
better  brotherhood,  —  not  before  recognized,  perhaps,  — 
in  the  broad  avenue  of  natural  taste.  How  cheerful  the 
walls  of  a  home  look  with  them ;  and,  by  the  rule  of  op- 
posites,  how  cheerless  without  them !  It  is  a  garden 
without  flowers,  a  family  without  children.  Let  an  ob- 
serving man  enter  a  house,  and  ten  times  in  ten  he  can 
decide  the  character  of  the  proprietor.  If  he  is  a  mean 
man,  there  will  be  no  pictures ;  if  rich  and  ostentatious, 
they  will  be  gairish  and  costly,  brought  from  over  the 
water,  with  expensive  frames,  and  mated  with  mathemati- 
cal exactness  ;  if  a  man  of  taste,  the  quality  is  observable, 
and,  whatever  their  number  or  arrangement,  regard  has 
evidently  been  had  to  the  beauty  of  subject  and  fitness, 
with  just  attention  to  light  and  position.  In  humble 
homes,  when  this  taste  exists,  it  still  reveals  itself,  though 
cheaply,  but  the  quick  eye  detects  it  and  respects  it. 
We  have  seen  it  in  a  prison,  where  a  judicious  placing 
of  a  wood-cut  or  a  common  lithograph  has  given  almost 
cheerfulness  to  the  stone  walls  on  which  it  hung. 


112  THE  OCEAN. — FATALITY. 


THE    OCEAN. 

THOU  art  jolly  in  thy  mood,  0,  playful  giant, 

Hurling  us  here  and  yon,  despite  our  will, 
To  all  entreaties  deaf — to  all  defiant — 

Holding  no  moment,  at  our  bidding,  still. 
The  poets  praise  thee  —  those  upon  some  mountain, 

From  which  their  optics  thy  bright  face  con  see, 
Dipping  their  cups  in  the  Castalian  fountain, 

Pouring  libations  soft  in  praise  of  thee. 
0,  treacherous  sea  !  how  sweet  thou  look'st  but  now, 

And  smooth,  as  is  the  cheek  of  maiden  fair  ;  — 
There  are  ten  thousand  wrinkles  on  thy  brow, 

And  anger's  fury  in  thy  hoary  hair. 
Let  poets  sing  of  thee  —  't  is  my  conviction 
They  'd  sing  another  tune,  if  'neath  thy  jurisdiction  ! 


FATALITY. 

"  DID  you  ever  notice,"  said  Dr.  Spooner,  "  the  fatal- 
ity  that  attends  upon  the  name  of  Atwood?  Meet  with 
it  where  you  will,  oysters  may  be  found  connected  with 
it  as  closely  as  barnacles  to  a  ship's  copper.  It  seems 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  Atwood  seems  as 
much  made  for  oysters  as  oysters  for  Atwood.  I  can't 
understand  it,  any  more  than  I  can  spirit  rapping  or  the 
aurora  borealis.  It  is  one  of  those  mysterious  phenom- 
ena of  the  universe  that  cannot  be  fathomed  by  the 
usual  rules  of  interpretation.  Should  I  go  to  England, 
I  should  expect  to  find  Atwood  engaged  in  the  oyster 
business.  Were  I  to  go  to  France,  I  should  be  greatly 
disappointed  did  I  not  find  Mons.  Atwood  opening  the 
bivalves  to  my  order.  Were  I  to  find  my  way  to  China, 
I  should  look  for  Atwood  with  a  long  tail  to  supply  me 
with  oysters !  It  is  very  strange,  and  I  never  look  at 
the  sign  bearing  the  name  without  thinking  of  this  des- 


A  SERIOUS  CALL.  113 

tiny  —  this  oystere  destiny,  if  I  am  allowed  the  privilege 
of  indulging  in  a  little  pleasantry  —  that  chains  them  to 
a  specific  calling,  like  old  Sassafras  that  rolled  the  big 
rock  up  the  mountain." — "  I  have  myself  noticed  this 
fatality,"  said  the  imperturbable,  who  sat  smoking  in  the 
corner,  "  and  your  remark  about  meeting  the  name  in 
foreign  parts  I  myself  have  tested.  I  have  met  it  in  Paris, 
in  Amsterdam ;  and  once,  when  in  Cairo,  Egypt,  as  I 
was  taking  some  oysters  with  a  friend,  I  had  the  curiosity 
to  ask  the  name  of  the  one  who  kept  the  place,  with 
a  view  to  establishing  the  fact  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing, and  the  name  was  given  of "  —  "  Atwood,  of 

course,"  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  in.  — "  No,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  imperturbable,  "  it  was  Tomally,  an  Egyptian  as 
black  as  your  hat."  He  kept  on  with  his  smoking, 
while  the  Doctor  pulled  on  his  glove  and  went  out, 
evidently  troubled  at  the  smile  that  greeted  his  discom- 
fiture. 


A   SERIOUS    CALL. 

WHAT  of  the  night,  0,  watchman  on  the  walls  ? 

Dost  see  the  day-star  through  the  mist  arise  ? 
Hears't  thou  the  herald  voice  of  God,  that  calls, 

Speaking  as  once  it  spoke  from  out  the  skies  ? 
Has  man  aught  further  on  his  journey  passed 

In  the  dark  shadows  of  the  dreary  night  ? 
Will  his  horizon  long  be  overcast, 

And  thick  the  veil  that  keeps  from  him  the  light  T 
What  of  the  night,  0,  watchmen  ?     See  yon  gleam 

Shoot  upward  from  the  darkly-curtained  east ! 
It  is  the  day-star's  radiating  beam  — 

Now  from  its  thrall  will  manhood  be  released  ! 
What  of  the  night  ?  —  0,  why  this  silence  deep  ? — 
No  day-star  beams  to  them  —  the  watchmen  are  asleep. 
10*  8 


114  THE  BARON   OF  BOSTON. 


THE   BARON    OF    BOSTON 

THE  Baron  he  liveth  a  happy  life  — 

0,  a  happy  man  is  he  ! 
For  his  mind  has  no  shade  of  care  or  strife, 

And  its  fancies  are  bright  and  free. 
No  acres  broad  doth  the  Baron  boast, 

But  his  heart  is  rich  as  a  king's, 
And  that  dominion  he  craves  the  most 

Is  what  good  fellowship  brings, 
As  he  laughs, 
As  he  quatts, 

In  the  light  which  his  happiness  flings. 

And  the  bold  Baron  sits  in  a  regal  way  — 

His  retainers  are  friends  most  true, 
And  he  rules  them  at  will  by  the  magical  play 

Of  his  fancies  rich  and  new. 
His  sceptre  's  a  Cuba,  of  title  proud, 

Betipped  with  a  glowing  star, 
And  his  crown  is  a  circle  of  fragrant  cloud, 

More  graceful  than  jewels  are, 
As  he  putt's, 
As  he  snufls 

His  odorous,  sweet  cigar. 

No  malice  he  bears  in  his  genial  breast, 

No  bitter  thoughts  he  knows  ; 
So  full  of  his  own  broad  friendship  blest, 

No  room  has  he  for  foes. 
He  welcomes  a  friend  with  a  loving  cheer, 

With  the  clasp  of  a  generous  hand, 
No  human  ice  in  his  sunshine  clear 

Can  ever  unmelted  stand  ; 
And  he  smiles 
And  beguiles 

By  the  heart's  own  kind  command. 

And  long  may  the  Baron  his  rule  preserve. 

And  his  castle  doors  be  stout, 
With  garrisoned  larder  and  cellar  to  serve 

To  keep  the  enemy  out ; 


SWEARING.  115 

And  when  in  the  evening  of  life  the  gale 

Shall  bear  him  from  Time's  rough  coast, 
May  he  speed  o'er  the  sea  with  a  willing  sail. 
To  the  haven  desired  most, 
And  his  elegy 
The  world  shall  see 
Recorded  in  the  Post. 


SWEARING. 

ALMOST  every  one  accustomed  to  smoking,  who  has  a 
proper  regard  for  the  little  courtesies  of  life,  asks,  be- 
fore he  indulges  in  his  propensity,  if  it  may  be  offensive 
to  any.  Suppose  the  same  question  were  asked  with 
regard  to  swearing,  by  those  who  are  disposed  to  in- 
dulge in  the  luxury  of  blaspheming.  There  are  times 
when  good  taste  is  fearfully  shocked  by  the  introduction 
of  words  and  sentiments  that  should  not  be  spoken  by 
the  members  of  any  circle ;  and,  though  not  disposed  to 
claim  for  ourselves  a  very  great  measure  of  sanctity, 
there  are  times  when  we  have  been  offended  —  to  use  a 
very  mild  term  for  the  feeling  —  at  expressions  which 
good  manners  should  have  suppressed,  and  good  morals 
should  never  have  allowed  to  enter  the  mind  of  those 
who  uttered  them.  We  think  the  time  has  gone  by 
when  profanity  is  generally  regarded  as  an  essential 
adjunct  of  wit,  and  that  a  story  loses  nothing  of  its 
piquancy  when  the  profanity  is  left  out.  It  is  very 
offensive  to  have  an  obtrusive  head,  with  an  oath  ever 
between  its  teeth,  thrust  among  decent  people,  and  it  is  a 
wonder  that  sensible  men,  themselves,  who  speak  pro- 
fanely—  and  there  are  too  many  such  —  should  not  see 
the  probable  disagreeable  nature  of  it  to  those  who 
hear  them,  and  suppress  it.  At  least,  they  might  pre- 


116  THE  PRIM  A   DONNA. 

face  their  remarks  with  the  question,  "  Is  swearing 
offensive  to  you  ?  "  If,  as  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  where 
the  same  question  is  asked  about  smoking,  the  answer 
is  in  the  negative,  then  the  swearer  can  blaze  away  with 
his  anathemas  and  imprecations  till  the  teeth  of  every- 
body chatter  to  hear  him.  Many  seem  to  swear  uncon- 
sciously, the  oaths  coming  in  as  naturally  as  italic 
words  in  the  emphasis  of  conversation  ;  and,  like  the 
boy  who  declared  that  he  did  n't  whistle  in  school  — 
that  it  whistled  itself,  they  might  give  the  same  excuse 
for  it.  There  is  something  very  unsatisfactory  in 
swearing,  and  after  a  man  has  indulged  in  his  profane 
stories,  and  has  made  crowds  laugh  by  them,  he  feels, 
when  he  gets  by  himself,  that  he  has  n't  much  to  brag 
of,  after  all,  and  that 

"  The  atheist  laugh  's  a  poor  exchange 
For  Deity  offended." 


THE   PRIMA    DONNA. 

"  DID  you  like  her  vocalization  ?  "  asked  the  amateur, 
reaching  over  the  seat  on  which  Mrs.  Partington  was 
sitting,  as  a  young  lady  finished  the  singing  of  a  favor- 
ite piece  of  music,  in  a  manner  that  set  every  heart 
thrilling  with  pleasure  to  hear  her.  — "  What  did  you 
say  ?  "  said  she,  turning  partly  round.  —  "  Did  you  like 
her  vocalization  ?  "  he  repeated.  —  "  Yes,"  replied  she, 
with  animation,  beating  the  time  on  her  umbrella-handle, 
"  and  I  liked  her  singing  too."  She  kept  on,  like  a  jolly 
old  wheelbarrow  — "  Why  should  we  send  to  Europe 
and  England  and  France  and  Fiddledee  for  executioners 
of  music,  when  we  can  find  such  voices  at  home  by  our 
own  fireplaces?  It  seemed  to  me  while  she  was  singing 


MISANTHROPY.  117 

that  we  were  getting  over  the  bars  of  heaven,  and  had 
come  to  a  rest  on  top  when  she  stopped.  The  music  of 
the  spears  can't  be  no  better.  But  do  look  at  that 
boy  !  I  declare  I  believe  he  will  be  a  prodigal  of  musical 
talons,  by  and  by,  if  he  lives  long  enough."  She  pointed 
at  Ike,  who  had  secured  a  long-handled  contribution- 
box  out  of  the  deacon's  pew,  and  had  transformed  it 
into  an  imaginary  violoncello,  playing  upon  it  with  the 
handle  of  a  deceased  palm-leaf  fan,  the  fragments  of 
which  strewed  the  floor.  , 


MISANTHROPY. 

THE  picture  in  Bleak  House,  representing  "  the 
young  man  Guppy"  in  the  theatre,  with  dishevelled 
hair  and  desperation  upon  his  brow,  after  being  rejected 
by  Esther,  is  very  ludicrous.  The  young  man  feels  that 
fate  has  done  him  a  deep  wrong,  and  he  defies  fate.  He 
challenges  fate  to  hit  him  again.  The  milk  of  human 
kindness  has  dried  up  in  him,  and  he  is  now  lacteally 
farrow.  Guppy  is  one  of  a  class  that  we  meet  with 
almost  every  day,  who,  through  large  self-esteem  and  a 
sovereign  belief  in  their  own  importance,  become  mis- 
anthropic at  the  first  breath  of  ill-luck,  and  resolve  to 
punish  the  world,  that  they  conceive  has  injured  them, 
by  leaving  it  to  its  own  destruction.  We  '11  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  this  ill-natured  world,  they  say,  which  4 
has  so  far  lost  sight  of  its  own  interests  as  to  treat  us, 
its  brightest  ornaments,  so  badly,  and  then  see  how  it 
will  get  along  !  We  abjure  it,  we  leave  it,  we  wash  our 
hands  of  it.  In  this  spite  they  regard  the  world,  and 
bore  the  ears  and  plague  the  hearts  of  all  who  listen  to 
their  complaints.  They  see,  however,  the  great  globe 


118  MEASURING  LOVE. 

spin  on,  to  their  utter  disgust,  and  find  that,  after  all, 
they  are  acting  very  foolishly ;  that  growling  does  no 
good,  and  that  a  cheerful  acquiescence  in  the  dispensa- 
tions of  Providence,  and  humble  trust,  are  far  better  than 
breaking  one's  head  in  futile  buttings  against  destiny  or 
accident.  Nine  times  out  of  ten,  those  who  growl  the 
most  against  the  world  have  most  reason  to  growl 
about  themselves.  They  make,  by  their  own  stupidity 
or  improvidence,  the  fortune  they  deprecate,  and  have 
no  more  reason  to  quarrel  about  it  than  they  would 
have  to  complain  that  destiny  gave  them  a  sore  finger 
after  they  had  put  their  finger  in  the  fire.  Could  people 
who  attempt  the  misanthrope  but  look  at  the  ridiculous 
Mr.  Guppy,  it  would  seem  that  they  should  be  cured 
oJ  the  disease  of  overvaluing  themselves. 


MEASURING    LOVE. 

"  BRIEF,  brief  at  best  is  all  the  love  of  man ! 
A  word,  a  promise  in  a  moment  broke, 
As  evanescent  as  the  wreathing  smoke 
That  melts  in  air  ere  we  its  form  may  scan."  — 
Nay,  loved  one,  nay,  speak  not  the  cruel  word, 
For  recently,  when  on  the  railway  train, 
My  fleet  thoughts  fleeter  flew  to  thee  again, 
And  love  for  thee  my  heart's  emotion  stirred : 
More  ardent  grew  the  faster  that  we  flew, 
And  every  mile  the  passion  warmer  burned, 
And  every  mile  my  heart  the  fonder  yearned 
To  pour  for  thee  its  offering  warm  and  tfue. 
Talk  of  the  length  of  love  !     Why,  all  this  while 
My  love  you  might  have  measured  by  the  mile. 


PLEBEIAN    PRETENSION.  119 

PLEBEIAN   PRETENSION. 

THE  doctor  said  it  was  a  case  of  the  gout  —  a  clear 
case.  This  was  surprising  to  everybody,  and  every- 
body smiled  hugely  at  the  idea ;  for  beyond  the  most 
frugal  limit  of  appetite,  including  occasional  tea,  the 
sufferer  had  not  gone.  There  was  a  great  flutter  in  the 
family  on  account  of  it,  because  a  case  of  the  gout,  they 
deemed,  brought  respectability  with  it.  Sir  Leicester 
Dedlock,  in  Bleak  House,  had  the  gout,  and  gloried  in 
it,  because  it  was  a  disease  that  had  been  in  the  family 
for  many  generations,  and  he  had  it  by  descent.  But 
here  was  a  case  where  it  had  left  the  charmed  circle  of 
the  aristocracy,  and  had  planted  itself  directly  upon  a 
plebeian  toe ;  —  painfully,  it  is  true/and  the  flesh  cringed 
and  groaned  in  the  utter  misery  of  it ;  but  it  was  "  re- 
spectable," and  a  grateful  posterity,  it  was  deemed, 
would  look  back  reverently  to  the  one  who  had  intro- 
duced the  gout  into  the  family  blood.  That  doctor  was 
regarded  as  a  marvellous  man,  whose  science  had  pene- 
trated through  the  rheumatic  and  erysipelatic  indica- 
tions, and  had  singled  the  gout  as  the  actual  disorder, 
then  gnawing  like  a  vicious  devil  at  the  mortal  extrem- 
ity ;  and  it  was  with  a  thrill  of  pride  that  inquirers  for 
the  health  of  the  sufferer  were  assured  that  the  gout 
was  the  malady.  Then  old  plates  in  Gentlemen's  Maga- 
zines were  sought,  by  which  to  define  the  true  position 
for  the  gouty  patient,  —  to  determine  whether  the  foot 
should  rest  at  an  angle  of  forty  or  sixty  degrees,  or  on  a 
plane  with  the  horizon, —  the  difficulty  being  dispelled  by 
au  old  habitue  of  the  theatres,  who  prescribed  a  flowered 
dressing-gown,  plenty  of  flannels,  and  the  foot  upon  a 
common  cricket,  as  the  theatrical  position,  and  it  was 
forthwith  adopted.  The  world  affected  to  laugh  about 


120  THE   FRANKLIN  STATUE. 

it,  —  it  was  such  a  glorious  joke  !  —  the  world  always 
jokes  when  it  affects  to  sympathize.  Here  was  a  claim  to 
gentility ;  here  was  an  attempt  to  overstep,  with  a  gouty 
foot,  old  landmarks,  by  one  who  had  no  legitimate  right 
to  the  position,  and  men  were  alarmed;  but,  though 
they  tried  to  sneer  it  down  as  rheumatism,  and  roar 
about  it  till  they  were  red  as  erysipelas,  the  doctor, 
who  ought  to  know,  said  it  was  the  gout,  and  the  suf- 
ferer, standing  on  his  crutches,  swore  he  would  cut  his 
toe  off  before  he  would  abate  one  nail  of  his  claim  — 
that  it  was  so. 


THE    FRANKLIN    STATUE. 

"  DID  you  see  the  statue  ?  "  we  asked  of  Mrs.  Par- 
tington,  the  next  day  after  the  inaugurative  procession. 
An  expression  of  disappointment  passed  over  her 
features,  as  she  answered,  "  No,  I  did  n't ;  it  must  have 
gone  by  when  I  went  down  stairs  to  get  some  water  for 
the  children.  A  three-cornered  gentleman,  with  a 
cocked  hat,  on  a  cart,  I  took  to  be  it ;  but  I  found  out 
that  it  was  one  of  Franklin's  contemptuaries,  an  old 
printer.  But  the  occasion  was  very  obtrusive,"  con- 
tinued she,  brightening  up  like  a  jolly  old  warming-pan, 
"  and  if  I  did  n't  see  the  statue,  somebody  else  did  ;  so 
it 's  just  as  well."  She  smiled  again,  and  subsided  into 
a  calm,  while  Ike,  with  three  chairs,  and  Lion  harnessed 
to  a  table,  filled  with  a  clothes-basket,  four  chairs,  and  a 
water-bucket,  was  "  making  believe  "  a  car  in  a  proces- 
sion on  his  own  account.  Lion  did  n't  seem  to  enjoy  it. 


A  WAY  TO   BE   HAPPY.  121 

A    WAY   TO    BE   HAPPY 

THE  study  to  be  happy  is  a  momentous  one,  and  its 
pursuit  is  one  of  the  great  rights  that  are  laid  down  in 
our  political  decalogue.  How  to  be  happy  is  just  what 
we  all  would  like  to  know.  A  few  suggestions  on  this 
subject  may  not  be  amiss  ;  and  if  they  should  not  be 
deemed  exactly  the  thing,  try  the  opposite  course  from 
the  one  recommended,  and  see  if  that  will  secure  tho 
desired  end.  Get  up  in  the  morning  scolding  and  fret- 
ting with  everything  and  everybody — it  will  be  an 
excellent  discipline  for  yourself,  and  give  your  family 
an  ardent  appetite  for  breakfast ;  and  if  the  fault  happen 
to  be  with  your  wife,  make  no  apology  —  it  is  a  lesson 
put  in  in  advance,  and  will  operate  prospectively. 
Growl  about  the  expense  of  dinner,  and  hint  about 
being  ruined  through  honie  extravagance  ;  this  will,  of 
course,  secure  economy,  and  help  bring  about  perfect 
peace  in  the  household.  Kick  the  dog,  if  he  is  in  your 
way,  and  if  he  bite  you  it  will  afford  excellent  evidence 
that  things  are  working.  Refuse  to  acknowledge  your 
neighbor's  bow  ;  he  is  a  wretch  that  some  one  has  been 
talking  about,  and  hence  deserves  to  be  cut  by  one  of 
your  superior  purity  ;  of  course,  your  contempt  will 
break  his  heart.  Complain  to  the  widow  next  door  that 
her  son  is  a  disgrace  to  the  neighborhood,  and  hint  to 
her  about  the  Farm  School  and  the  poor-house ;  it  will 
tend  very  much  to  cheer  her.  When  you  come  home 
and  find  the  floor  scoured,  plant  your  dirty  feet  upon 
it ;  the  cheerful  phenomena  attending  this  experiment 
will  be  very  novel.  Be  crabbed  as  a  bear  to  employes, 
and  find  all  the  fault  you  can ;  nothing  gives  such  a  de- 
licious flow  to  the  spirit,  and  secures  such  willing  ser- 
vice, as  good  wholesome  censure.  Always  assert  your 
11 


122    NEW  ENGLAND'S  LION.  —  UNNATURAL  FATHERS. 

own  superior  claim  to  wisdom,  and  prove  your  com- 
panions' stupidity  by  measuring  their  little  corn  in  your 
big  bushel ;  it  will  give  them  a  very  exalted  opinion  of 
you.  If  a  boy  come  into  your  store  to  sell  you  any- 
thing, drive  him  off,  and  threaten  to  set  the  dog  on  him  ; 
it  will  encourage  him  to  persevere  in  an  honest  calling. 
We  have  laid  down  a  few  propositions,  which  may  be 
added  to.  Should  one  follow  these  carefully,  he  would 
soon,  undoubtedly,  attain  the  ultimate  of  mundane  bliss. 


NEW    ENGLAND'S    LION. 

A  LION  's  in  our  path,  but  not  like  him, 

In  Eastern  climes,  the  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Whose  roaring  echoes  through  the  jungles  dim, 

In  which  he  lurks  in  sanguinary  mood, 
Waiting  to  lay  his  predatory  paw 

Unprayerfully  on  what  may  come  as  prey, 
And  by  the  force  of  his  own  mighty  law 

Make  all  pay  toll  who  cross  his  royal  way. 
New  England's  lion  greets  us  by  our  path, 

His  bright  eye,  golden  in  its  rim  of  green, 
Flashes  not  on  us  with  a  glance  of  wrath, 

But  e'er  in  sweet  placidity  is  seen. 
Between  the  lions  of  the  East  and  West, 
The  Dandelion  I  proclaim  the  best. 


UNNATURAL    FATHERS. 

THE  conversation  had  somehow  turned  upon  parents 
in  plays  who  were  depicted  as  turning  their  children 
out  of  doors  for  disobedience,  and  incidents  were  cited 
m  actual  life  where  the  same  thing  had  been  done. 
These  were  pronounced  very  unnatural,  and  much  in- 
dignation was  expressed  at  their  occurrence.  One 
instance,  in  particular,  was  named  that  seemed  like  the 


UNNATURAL   FATHERS.  123 

recital  of  an  old-world  tale,  where  a  tyrannical  father 
had  shut  his  door  against  his  daughter  for  the  offence 
of  loving  and  marrying  one  obnoxious  to  him,  and  she 
had  sickened  and  died  with  not  one  word  of  forgive- 
ness or  message  of  love  from  his  cold  lips,  and  he  had 
denied  her  even  the  honor  of  a  formal  attendance  at  her 
funeral.  "  Shame  !  shame  !  "  was  the  cry ;  "  how  un- 
natural ! "  Dr.  Spooner  raised  his  finger.  The  glove 
was  off,  as  though  he  were  fearful  the  intervention  of 
thread  would  disturb  the  electric  force  of  the  gesture. 
"  Not  unnatural,"  said  he ;  "  pardon  me,  but  to  my  view 
the  conduct  of  such  a  father  is  the  most  natural  thing  in 
the  world.  Why,  do  you  ask?  Because  the  relation 
between  such  father  and  daughter  is  entirely  natural, 
without  one  ray  of  spiritual  light  to  illumine  it,  without 
one  feeling  of  spiritual  sympathy  to  cement  it.  Such 
fathers  are  the  Dombeys,  who  are  incapable  of  sympa- 
thetic feeling ;  who  marry  and  raise  families,  and  culti- 
vate pride  for  affection,  which  is  tested  in  scenes  like 
the  one  named.  Their  marriages  are  conventional,  and 
their  offspring  partake  of  the  same  conventionality. 
They  are  proud  of  their  children,  as  they  might  be  of 
their  horses,  and  the  world  calls  it  affection;  but,  at 
the  first  breath  of  opposition  to  their  rule  or  inclination, 
from  a  child  that  dares  to  love,  the  offended  pride  turns 
the  child  out  of  doors,  and  has  no  remorseful  feelings 
afterwards  for  the  act.  Love  does  not  thus.  It  may  at 
times  storm  and  rave  at  opposition,  where  the  hopes  of 
a  lifetime  are  blasted  by  wilfulness  —  inherited  wilful- 
ness,  miybe  —  on  the  part  of  children ;  but  where  true 
affection  is,  obdurate  pride,  anger,  frustrated  intention, 
everything  yields  to  its  gentle  pleadings,  that  neve*- 
plead  in  vain.  Depend  upon  it,  there  is  nothing  un- 
natural about  the  case  you  have  named." 


124  A  DIFFICULTY.  —  LOVE. 

A    DIFFICULTY. 

"  DOMESTIC  difficulties,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  "  comes 
in  different  guys,  —  some  is  quarrelling,  some  is  pov- 
erty, and  some  is  something  else  ;  but  this  is  the  great- 
est of  'em  all."  She  pointed  to  a  paper,  as  she  spcke, 
which  chronicled  six  children  at  a  birth.  "  There  's  dif- 
ficulty," continued  she ;  "  and  how  the  poor  motbgr  will 
overcome  it  is  more  than  I  can  imagine.  Only  think, 
six  mouths  to  feed,  six  dresses  to  wash,  six  heads  to 
comb,  six  cases  of  chicken-pox  to  take  care  of,  six 
measles  to  look  after,  six  to  pull  out  of  the  water,  six  to 
keep  from  getting  run  over,  six  to  buy  books  for,  and 
six  to  get  places  for  when  they  grow  up.  I  declare  I 
don't  see  how  she  can  ever  get  over  it."  No  wonder 
that  she  saw  the  difficulty,  when  she  found  it  so  hard  to 
manage  one,  who  even  then  was  trying  the  experiment, 
that  he  had  seen  Blitz  perform,  of  balancing  a  plate  on 
his  finger,  to  fall  in  a  moment  to  irremediable  smash. 


LOVE. 

THE  pulse  of  life  is  Love,  —  without  its  throb, 

Men  were  but  mere  machines,  and  poor  at  that, 
And  all  life's  duties  but  a  weary  job, 

Like  these,  my  rhymes,  —  unprofitable,  stale,  and  flat ! 
Love  is  born  with  and  in  us  and  around, 

It  lights  our  cradle  with  its  ray  serene, 
It  follows  us  in  sorrow's  depths  profound, 

It  shrinks  not,  howsoever  drear  the  scene  ; 
Stronger  when  woe's  dense  cloud  of  trial  lowers, 

Its  voice  is  heard  still  breathing  in  the  gloom, 
As  the  sweet  herb  of  night  expands  its  flowers, 

And  sheds  amid  the  darkness  its  perfume  ! 
Yet  Love  too  oft  feels  not  the  gentle  mesh 
Of  olden  thrall,  but  sighs  for  pots  of  flesh. 


HEIR-LOOMS.  120 

HEIR-LOOMS. 

How  sacred  a  thing  is  made,  by  the  lapse  of  time  !  A 
stick  that  one  of  our  remote  ancestors  has  carried  in  his 
hands  may  have  been  handed  down  to  us ;  and  though  he 
is  one  with  whom,  in  the  world  of  matter,  we  have  nothing 
in  common  that  we  know  of,  unless  it  be  a  common  name, 
and  that  perhaps  changed  in  the  spelling,  we  are  brought 
near  to  him  by  this  simple  twig  —  a  meaningless  thing 
in  itself —  to  which,  by  some  strange  process,  the  spirit 
of  its  original  owner  has  imparted  itself.  Why  not? 
No  thought  is  lost,  and  why  may  it  not  be  that  our  ven- 
erable ancestor's  thought,  that  prompted  him  to  cut  the 
twig  we  prize,  and  cherish  it,  and  trim  off  the  knots  and 
make  it  so  comely  and  shapely,  and  to  guard  it  for  many 
a  year,  may  still  in  some  way  —  we  '11  not  say  how  — 
protect  it,  in  order  that  it  may  be  a  connecting  thing 
between  himself  and  his  descendants,  thus  preserving  a 
sympathetic  rapport  between  the  past  and  the  present  ? 
It  has  always  seemed  to  us  that  heir-looms  were  imbued 
with  this  old  spirit,  for  this  purpose.  And  that  they 
have  their  effect  is  manifest  in  the  way  that  they  are 
cherished  by  those  people  who  are  governed  by  the 
"  sentimentality  "  that  recognizes  the  value  of  a  thing 
above  its  market  price,  and  set  more  by  an  old  cocked- 
hat,  or  a  pair  of  small-clothes,  or  a  faded  dress,  than  by  a 
thousand  new  things,  with  no  association,  beyond  the 
fact  that  they  may  not  yet  have  been  paid  for,  to  com- 
mend them.  What  sacredness  attaches  to  an  old  chair, 
for  instance,  whose  arms  have  held  many  a  generation 
that  still  speak  to  us  1  Our  ancestors  embrace  us  in 
the  antique  and  queer  frame,  and  we  repeat  the  asser- 
tion of  Miss  Eliza  Cook  that  "  we  love  it."  It  would 
bring  perhaps,  twenty-five  cents  at  auction,  and  every- 
11* 


126  DON'T  LOOK  BACK. 

body  but  ourselves  would  laugh  at  it ;  but  every  sliver 
of  it  has  a  value  that  money  cannot  offset.  Heir-looms 
have  good  influences  about  them,  inasmuch  as  they 
come  down  from  good  people.  Things  thus  transmitted 
bear  some  evidence  of  person  or  deed  that  is  pleasant 
—  representing,  in  this  direction,  one  combining  many 
virtues,  and  in  this  some  act  that  it  makes  us  better  to 
know,  though  generations  removed  from  the  time  and 
scene  of  its  occurrence.  A  knife  or  a  halter  would  not  be 
preserved  as  an  heir-loom,  nor  the  memory  of  crime- 
stained  life  be  very  particularly  cherished,  outside  the 
annals  of  justice.  So  we  honor  our  ancestors  through 
transmitted  timber,  old  crockery,  or  old  pictures,  or  keep 
alive  patriotic  emotions  by  collecting  canes  from  old 
Ironsides,  Independence  Hall,  or  Mount  Vernon. 


DON'T    LOOK    BACK. 

How  some  men  dwell  and  ponder  on  the  past ; 

Like  ghosts  come  back  'neath  glimpses  of  the  moon 
Sighing  o'er  hopes  and  joys  too  bright  to  last, 

And  happiness  departed  all  too  soon  ! 
Like  owls  they  live,  delighted  with  the  night, 

Or  brood  in  hollows  where  the  sun  ne'er  cheers. 
Shutting  their  eyes  perversely  to  the  light, 

That  broad  before  them  evermore  appears. 
0,  men,  throw  off  the  sombre  pall  which  hides 

From  your  soul's  vision  the  bright  land  To  Be, 
And  sail  on  hopeful  o'er  the  flowing  tides 

That  tend  toward  the  everlasting  sea  ! 
This  counsel  heed  :  that  track  's  the  Tightest  one 
That  brings  our  vessel'^  prow  the  nearest  to  the  sun. 


GOOD    RESOLUTIONS.  127 

GOOD    RESOLUTIONS. 

"THIS  is  the  season  of  good  resolutions,"  said  the 
young  man,  in  answer  to  Dr.  Spooner's  wish  for  a  happy 
new  year.  "  Nominally,"  replied  the  Doctor  ;  "  there  is 
something  in  the  commencement  of  a  new  year  that  nat- 
urally suggests  thought  of  habits  contracted  or  pam- 
pered during  the  year  that  'a  past,  and,  as  we  see  them 
clinging  to  us  like  vampires,  sucking  the  marrow  from 
our  moral  or  physical  bones,  we  plant  our  feet  with 
something  very  like  resolution,  and  say  we  will  turn 
over  a  new  leaf.  And  we  are  honest  in  the  determina- 
tion, and  mean  to  stick  to  it ;  but,  alas !  with  the  waning 
year  resolution  wanes,  and  we  find  that  our  promises, 
like  pie-crust,  are  very  easily  broken.  Like  a  man  full 
of  wine  and  meat  disavowing  a  desire  for  victuals,  so 
we,  with  appetites  satiated,  for  the  nonce  deem  that  ap- 
petite is  an  easy  thing  to  overcome ;  but  we  find  that 
we  cannot  throw  it  aside  with  our  tobacco.  It  becomes 
an  importunate  thing,  that,  like  Banquo's  ghost,  obtrudes 
itself  in  our  hours  of  pleasure,  and  everywhere.  It  is 
an  ever-present  thing.  Memory  battles  with  resolution, 
and  the  diseased  fancy  clothes  the  banished  with  a 
thousand  fascinations,  and  we  become  its  victim,  till  a 
new  year  brings  new  resolutions,  to  be  broken  again  in 
after  time.  When  a  man  leaves  off  a  habit  and  resumes 
it  again,"  continued  the  Doctor,  "  I  am  reminded  of  the 
scripture  where  the  evil  one  goes  out  of  a  man  and 
seeks  rest  in  dry  places,  but,  finding  none,  he  returns  to 
his  old  apartments  that  have  been  cleaned  up  during 
his  absence,  to  follow  the  simplifying  rule  laid  down  by 
my  friend  Dr.  Sawyer,  and  the  latter  days  of  that  man 
are  worse  than  his  first.  Habit  and  appetite  once  estab- 
lished, they  are  about  as  hard  to  throw  off  as  was  the 


128  MRS.   PARTINGTON   ON   MUSIC. 

little  old  man  of  the  sea,  who  volunteered  as  a  neck-tie 
for  the  renowned  Sinbad.  Stick  to  your  resolution,  my 
young  friend,  for  one  month,  and  you  will  deserve  a 
medal  as  big  as  a  griddle  for  your  moral  heroism."  — 
"  And  did  you  ever  find  it  thus  hard  ?  "  the  young  man 
inquired ;  "  did  you  ever  have  habits  thus  hard  to  over- 
come ?  "  —  "  Did  I  ?  "  repeated  the  Doctor,  twitching  at 
his  gloves  nervously.  "  Who  is  there  that  has  them  not? 
Habit  takes  a  thousand  forms,  and  he  who  rails  the 
loudest  at  you  for  using  tobacco  or  wine  may  have  a 
habit  of  cormorantish  appetite  dragging  him  down  in 
another  direction."  The  Doctor  went  out,  leaving  the 
young  man  standing  with  meditation  in  his  eye  and  a 
paper  of  silver-leaf  tobacco  in  his  hand,  the  open  stove- 
door  before  him. 


MRS.    PABTINGTON    ON   MUSIC. 

"  Music  is  one  of  the  greatest  attractions  of  home," 
said  the  teacher,  leaning  his  left  hand  upon  the  table, 
and  elevating  his  right,  with  the  fore-finger  protruding, 
like  a  lightning-rod.  "  The  greatest  attraction,"  he  repeat- 
ed, drumming  upon  the  table  with  his  sinister  digits,  as  if 
he  would  enforce  his  remark  by  a  practical  example.  — 
"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  smoothing  down  a  seam 
in  some  garment  she  was  making,  "  I  believe  it  is,  and 
when  our  neighbor,  Mr.  Smooth,  got  his  new  pioneer 
fort  for  his  noisy  children,  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  added 
forty  detractions  to  home,  for  they  were  always  quarrel- 
ling like  dog's-delight  to  see  who  should  play  on  to  it. 
The  way  to  make  home  harmonious,"  —  and  she  looked 
up  with  an  expression  of  great  wisdom,  as  she  said  it, 
her  eyes  glancing  through  the  western  window  at  the 


SACRILEGIOUS.  129 

Old  South  vane,  that  gleamed  in  the  sunshine,  as  if 
catching  the  ray  of  her  own  inspiration,  —  "  the  way  to 
make  home  harmonious  is  to  organize  it  —  to  buy  a 
hand-organ,  and  hire  somebody  to  play  on  to  it.  The 
noise  of  it  would  soon  put  a  stop  to  all  the  family  jars, 
depend  upon  it."  She  bit  off  the  thread  of  her  discourse 
and  her  cotton  at  the  same  time,  while  her  listener 
smiled  faintly,  either  at  the  misapprehension  she  was 
evidently  laboring  under,  or  at  the  newness  of  her  the- 
ory with  regard  to  the  harmony  of  home,  but  made  no 
further  remark. 


SACRILEGIOUS. 

"  SIGH  corruption  in  the  church ! "  said  Mrs.  Parting, 
ton,  bringing  her  hands  down  severely  on  a  paper  she 
was  reading,  containing  an  account  of  an  Episcopal  ded- 
ication somewhere.  There  was  instantly  great  attention. 
"  I  read  here,"  continued  she,  "  that  the  archbishop  came 
in  with  his  mitre  and  stole ;  and,  if  stealing  is  n't  corrup- 
tion, then  I  don't  know  what  is."  She  looked  round 
upon  the  circle,  and  there  was  a  smile  perceptible  upon 
the  faces  of  such  as  understood  what  she  was  driving 
at.  Just  as  one  of  the  party  was  going  to  explain  to 
her  that  she  was  lying  under  a  misapprehension,  Lion 
rushed  in  with  Ike  on  his  back,  and  the  harmony  of  the 
circle  was  interrupted. 

9 


'30  AN   OLD   FABLE   MODERNIZED. 


AN    OLD    FABLE    MODERNIZED. 

I  GLEAN  this  fable  from  jolly  old  Rabelais, 
"Who  ne'er  marred  a  story  by  telling  it  shabbily. 
And  I  earnestly  hope  that  my  versification 
Will  give  to  its  moral  a  plain  application  ; 
Which  moral  will  show  that  by  acting  too  speedily, 
And  grasping  and  striving  for  aught  over  greedily, 
'T  will  end  most  likely  in  signal  disaster 
(Reward  from  the  ancient  particular  master), 
While  we  who  are  modest,  and  not  any  covetous, 
Taking  all  quiet,  as  Fortune  may  shove  it  us, 
Will  make  out  better,  be  sure,  at  the  last  of  it, 
And  in  its  enjoyment  make  ample  repast  of  it : 

One  day,  when  the  gods,  in  high  debate, 
Had  waxed  quite  warm  on  concerns  of  state, 
And  Jupiter  Tonans  wiped  bis  face, 
As  discussion  found  a  resting  place — 
(For  on  the  nods  of  the  gods,  you  know, 
Depended  all  matters  then  below, 
And  business  of  merely  men  or  kings, 
Or  any  other  terrestrial  things, 
Must  come  before  the  conclave  high, 
Convened  in  chambers  of  the  sky), — 
That  a  fearful  clamor  from  earth  arose, 
Like  the  accent  of  a  thousand  woes, 
That  broke  the  Thunderer's  short  repose. 

"  What  are  the  sounds  that  our  ears  profane? 
Mercury  !  start  like  a  railway  train  ; 
Open  the  windows  of  heaven,  and  know 
The  cause  of  all  this  rumpus  below." 

Then  Mercury  listened  with  eager  ear, 
And  smiled  to  himself  the  sound  to  hear, 
For  in  truth  it  struck  him  as  rather  queer  : 

"  0,  Jupiter  Tonans,"  a  voice  cried  out, 
With  tone  stentoriously  stout, 
That  rung  like  a  trumpet  arraying  a  host  -  • 
"  0,  Jupiter  Tonans  !  my  axe  is  lost ! 


AN  OLD   FABLE  MODERNIZED.  131 

O,  cruel  fortune,  thus  for  to  bother  one  ! 
0,  great  Jupiter,  give  me  another  one  !  " 

Then  Jupiter  -winked  with  an  ominous  leer, 

As  he  the  petitioner's  prayer  did  hear  — 

"  Confound  the  fellow  !  what  clamor  he  makes ! 

The  very  concave  of  heaven  he  shakes, 

As  if  he  'd  all  of  creation  tax, 

By  making  this  muss  about  his  axe  ! 

Yet  ofl'er  him  one  of  silver  or  gold, 

He  'd  no  longer  clamor  for  this  so  bold. 

Kun,  Mercury,  run  !   or,  sure  as  a  gun, 

By  this  chap's  noise  we  are  all  undone  ! 

Offer  him  axe  of  silver  and  gold, 

And  iron  —  his  own  choice  uncontrolled  — 

I  '11  stake  my  sceptre  that  he  '11  think  higher  on 

Either  the  silver  or  gold  than  the  iron  ; 

But  if  he  choose  silver  or  gold  instead, 

I  say,  Mercury,  off  with  his  head  !  " 

Jupiter  frowned  like  easterly  weather, 
And  the  gods,  affrighted,  huddled  together, 
And  shook  in  every  wing  and  feather ! 

Mercury  gave  one  jump,  and  flew, 
Cutting  his  way  through  the  ether  blue, 
And  quick  as  the  lightning  made  his  tracks, 
Where  the  man  was  bellowing  for  his  axe. 
"  Here  't  is,  old  chap  !  "  then  Mercury  said, 
And  threw  before  him  the  gold  one  red. 
"  None  of  your  tricks,"  says  he,  right  cross, 
"  'T  is  n't  for  this  I  mourn  the  loss." 
Then  Mercury  threw  the  silver  down, 
Which  suited  still  less  the  weeping  clown  ; 
But  when  the  iron  one  met  his  view, 
He  cried,  delighted,  "  'T  is  good  as  new." 
He  held  its  handle,  and  grasped  it  tight. 
And  said,  "  Old  fellow,  this  ere  's  all  right !  " 
Then  Mercury  called  him  an  honest  soul, 
Told  him  for  this  he  should  have  the  whole  ; 
Then  left  all  three  with  the  happy  elf, 
And  went  right  back  to  report  himself. 

Now  the  clod  was  rich,  and  with  few  words 
He  bought  him  houses,  and  barns,  and  herds. 


132  AN  OLD   FABLE  MODERNIZED. 

His  neighbors  wondered  this  to  see, 
And  sought  to  unravel  the  mystery ; 
Nor  long  did  he  their  wondering  tax, 
But  told  the  story  about  his  axe. 
Then  all  who  had  axes  vowed  to  go 
And  see  what  luck  to  them  would  now  ; 
And  those  who  had  none  stopped  at  naught, 
But  sold  their  goods  and  axes  bought, 
Then  went  away,  resolved  to  lose  'em, 
And  make  appeal  to  Jove's  own  bosom, 
Convinced  that  he  would  not  refuse  'em. 

Their  clamoring  wakened  all  the  sky, 

And  angry  grew  the  Thunderer's  eye,  — 

Who  summoned  Mercury  to  go 

Upon  his  errand  again  below  — 

"  These  chaps  must  n't  be  left  to  pother  one, 

Serve  them  just  as  you  did  the  other  one  ; 

Put  the  test  that  then  you  tried, 

Let  them  for  themselves  decide, 

Give  what  they  ax,  and  let  'em  slide  !  " 

Down  went  Mercury  on  his  mission 

Where  they  noisily  made  petition. 

The  golden  axe  on  the  ground  he  threw . 

The  first  one  greedily  at  it  flew, 

When,  swinging  the  steel  axe  in  his  hand, 

The  head  of  the  seeker  sought  the  sand  ; 

And  so  of  the  whole  of  the  clamorous  crowd 

Each  nose  like  a  coulter  the  green  sward  ploughed  , 

And  from  this  day's  ensanguined  workery 

Arose  man's  guess  of  the  uses  of  mercury  — 

And  it  undoubtedly  a  palpable  fact  is, 

Ten  medical  colleges,  all  in  full  practice, 

With  surgeons  awaiting  a  chance  to  dissect  you  all, 

Could  n't  make  mercury  more  effectual, 

Or  cut  men  down  quicker  than  Mercury  packed  his 

On  this  first  day  of  "  legitimate  "  practice. 

My  friends,  ye  who  read  this  fable  so  winning, 

Look  for  the  moral  at  the  beginning  — 

For  which,  and  the  story,  think  just  as  you  may  of  them, 

I  have  nothing  more  at  present  to  say  of  them. 


ROBERT    BUENS.  133 

ROBERT    BURNS. 

How  little  we  can  see  the  end  from  the  beginning ! 
Burns  was  born  in  a  mud  cabin  on  the  banks  of  the 
Doon,  a  hundred  years  ago,  —  a  humble  enough  begin- 
ning, from  which  no  higher  future  could  be  presumed 
through  any  entailed  right, —  and  to-day  the  world  unites 
in  honoring  the  one  who  was  then  "  the  babe  beneath 
the  shieling,"  but  whose  song  has  since  done  so  noble  a 
work  in  humanizing  man.  On  the  centennial  anniver- 
sary of  the  birthday  of  Kobert  Burns,  wherever  the 
English  language  is  spoken,  —  and  that  embraces  a  very 
wide  range,  —  men,  imbued  with  a  love  of  the  manhood 
that  inspired  him,  met  to  do  honor  to  his  memory.  The 
.high  and  the  low,  the  learned  and  the  unlearned,  save 
in  lessons  of  heart,  combined  in  ovation  to  their  favor- 
ite—  their  favorite  so  far  as  the  feelings  hold  sway  over 
the  mere  machinery  of  the  brain,  for  Burns'  cultivation 
was  limited,  and  his  song  flowed,  like  "  bonny  Doon," 
undirected,  save  by  the  great  voice  of  Nature  that  spoke 
to  him  from  field  and  wayside,  and  brook  and  flower, 
and  gave  freshness  and  beauty  to  everything  it  ap- 
proached. 

It  was  necessary  that  he  should  be  born  poor. 
Like  the  mavis,  he  sprang  from  the  dead  flat  of  life, 
and  rose  to  sing  among  the  stars.  His  spirit  was  ever 
reaching  far  out  into  the  spirit  of  the  universe,  and 
drinking  in  through  its  thousand  fibres  the  life  that 
filled  it  —  that  burned  in  his  denunciation  of  wrong, 
scathed  like  the  lightning  in  his  satire,  melted  in  his 
lays  that  had  the  human  heart  and  the  ingleside  for  their 
themes,  or  laughed  in  the  songs  that  gushed  under  the 
inspiration  of  John  Barleycorn.  He  was  not  divine ; 
12 


134:  ROBERT  BURNS. 

that  is  cherished  as  a  glorious  thought  —  for  he  is  made 
our  brother  through  his  imperfection,  and  men  love  him 
for  his  humanity.  There  is  no  writer  since  Shakespeare 
that  has  lived  so  much  in  the  sympathies  of  the  people 
as  Burns,  and  herein  is  the  secret  of  his  fame ;  he  was 
the  poet  of  the  common  heart,  which  received  him  and 
prized  him.  He  was  a  prophet,  and,  with  thoughts  a 
hundred  years  in  advance  of  his  time,  he  denounced 
wrong  then  in  the  ascendant,  and  the  stigma  attached 
to  him  that  ever  attends  upon  such ;  but  the  years  are 
doing  him  justice.  The  cloud  becomes  light  in  the 
admitted  right  of  his  prescience,  and  his  frailties, "  where 
nature  stepped  aside,"  are  forgotten  in  the  simple  grand- 
eur of  the  truths  he  sung. 

The  following  was  written  for  the  Burns  centenary 
celebration,  at  the  Parker  House,  Boston,  Jan.  25th, 
1859,  and  sung  by  a  member  of  the  Burns  Club : 


•WHAT   'S    A*    THE    STEER? 

What 's  a'  the  steer  makin'  ?  what 's  a'  the  steer? 

The  PEASANT  BARD  first  saw  the  light  this  day  a  hunder  year  ; 

An'  a'  our  hearts  expand  blithely  —  a'  our  hearts  expand 

Wi'  honor  o'  his  name  that 's  known  in  every  land  ; 

For  'twas  a  blessed  thing,  surely,  'twas  a  blessed  thing, 
Sin'  a'  the  world  was  better  for  't  when  BURNS  began  to  sing  ; 
Sae  we  '11  raise  our  voices  high,  in  tones  of  grandest  cheer, 
That  ROB  THE  RHYMER  saw  the  light  this  day  a  hunder  year  ' 

His  fame 's  brawly  won,  nei'bor,  his  fame 's  brawly  won, 
An'  a'  the  lan's  unite  to  crown  auld  Scotia's  gifted  son  ; 
They  plait  a  laurel-wreath  for  him,  —  his  weel  achievit  bays,  — 
And  bring  rich  offerings  o'  mind  as  tributes  to  his  praise  : 
For  tho'  o'  humble  birth,  nei'bor,  tho'  o'  humble  birth, 
His  genius  gied  him  station  wi'  gentles  o'  the  earth  ; 
Sae  we  're  a'  unco  happy,  and  we  '11  mak'  a  joyfu'  steer, 
Sin'  ROB  THE  POET  saw  the  light  this  day  a  hunder  year  ! 


THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE.          135 

The  humble  and  the  high,  nei'bor,  the  humble  and  the  high, 
Combine  to  glorify  the  bard  whose  sang  will  never  die  ; 
In  every  clime  'tis  heard  wi'  joy  —  in  every  gentle  hame  — 
An'  sparkling  een  glow  doubly  bright  at  mention  o'  his  name. 

0,  he 's  the  puir  man's  friend,  nei'bor  !  he  's  the  puir  man's  friend, 
An'  hoddin  gray  tak's  honored  rank,  where  worth  its  grace  doth  lend. 
There  's  a  blessin'  on  the  hour  that  bauds  us  captive  here, 
For  ROB  THE  PUIR  MAN'S  BARD  saw  light  this  day  a  huuder  year  ' 

Wide  is  his  clan  spreadin'  —  wide  is  his  clan  : 
They  're  counted  wheresoever  men  most  nobly  act  the  man  ; 
Not  where  the  tartans  gleam,  nei'bor,  nor  yet  the  bonnets  blue, 
But  where  the  heart  is  tender,  and  men  are  leal  and  true. 
'T  is  nae  tie  o'  bluid,  nei'bor,  nae  tie  o'  bluid, — 
His  sangs  unite  the  nations  a'  in  ae  braid  britherhood  ; 
Sae  honor  crown  the  time,  and  pang  it  fu'  o'  cheer, 
Sin'  BURNS  THE  PLOUGHMAN  BARD  was  born  this  day  a  hunder  year ! 


THE    KNOCKING    AT    THE    GATE 

FOUNDED   UPON    A   REAL   INCIDENT. 

'T  WAS  the  social  hour  of  evening, 

And  the  ruddy  fire  gleamed  bright, 
On  the  grateful  tea-urn  glancing, 

With  a  fond  and  loving  light, 
When  our  happy  circle  gathered 

Round  about  the  plenteous  board, 
And  those  cheerful  words  were  spoken 

That  contented  hearts  afford  ; 

And  the  little  voices  blended 

With  the  graver  tones  of  love, 
And  the  blest  domestic  picture 

Forecast  seemed  of  bliss  above  ;  — 
Whilst  thus  at  the  table  sitting, 

Heart  and  eye  and  tongue  elate, 
Came  a  sound  of  some  one  rapping  — 

Rapping  softly  at  the  gate. 


136         THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE. 

The  bitter  wind  -without  was  howling, 

Rattling  rude  the  window  blind, 
And  the  frost  upon  the  casement 

Many  a  witchy  shape  defined  ; 
Whilst  the  snow  in  angry  swirlings 

Darted  by  like  figures  white, 
Phantoms  seeming,  adding  terror 

To  the  dreariness  of  night. 

Maggy  then  her  form  presented, 

And  thus  spoke  she  soft  and  mild : 
"  Please  ye,  very  cold  and  hungry, 

Stands  outside  a  little  child, 
And  for  bread  the  poor  tiling  's  asking 

For  the  ones  at  home  in  need  ; 
Shall  I  give  her,  may  it  please  ye  ? 

It  will  be  a  Christian  deed." 

Then  our  little  Mary  whispered  : 

"  Tell  me,  what  did  Maggy  say  ? 
Tell  me  of  the  little  beggar,  — 

Tell  me  all  about  it,  pray." 
Then  we  told  her  all  the  story  — 

How  some  people  wanted  bread, 
And  the  fearful,  tearful  struggle 

Where  pale  famine  reared  its  head. 

And  she  listened  when  we  told  her 

Of  her  own  far  happier  state 
Than  that  of  the  little  beggar 

Lately  knocking  at  the  gate  , 
Listened  like  a  child,  half  heeding, 

To  our  dismal  tale  of  woe  — 
Gravely  heard  us  to  the  ending, 

Rocking  gently  to  and  fro. 

Long  she  sat,  and  we,  not  noting 

Talked  again  of  this  and  that, 
Till  sweet  Mary,  sadly  sobbing, 

Waked  us  from  our  busy  chat. 
••  What 's  the  matter,  darling  ?  "  asked  we, 

And  with  trembling  voice  she  said, 
••  I  was  weeping  at  the  story 

Of  the  child  who  wanted  bread  ! " 


MRS.   PARTINGTON  AND   IKE.  137 

Then  our  hearts  were  full  of  gladness, 

And  our  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
At  the  words  our  darling  uttered 

In  this  dawning  of  her  years ; 
'T  was  the  gush  of  heavenly  pity 

That  another's  woe  unsealed, 
And  we  gloried  in  the  promise 

Its  deep  sympathy  revealed. 


MRS.    PARTINGTON    AND    IKE. 

"  WHAT  is  your  mean  temperature  here,  mem  ?  "  said 
the  meteorologist,  as  he  sat  in  Mrs.  Partington's  little 
shaded  back  parlor,  on  a  warm  day,  with  the  cool  air 
drawing  through  the  windows,  and  rustling  the  cut 
paper  around  the  old  looking-glass  frame  that  "had  hung 
for  so  long  a  time  on  the  wall.  —  "  Mean  temperature  I " 
exclaimed  she,  with  a  sharp  emphasis  on  the  mean ; 
"  mean  temperature  !  we  have  got  no  mean  tempera- 
ture here,  sir;  nor  mean  people,  neither,  unless  you 
may  call  Mr.  Grab,  the  sheriff,  one,  who  pretended  he 
had  an  attachment  for  a  man,  and  then  went  and  took 
all  his  propriety  on  a  mean  process  for  debt.  This  was 
mean  enough,  goodness  knows."  —  "I  mean  the  tem- 
perature of  the  weather,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  listener, 
dreading  the  indignation  that  gathered  in  her  tone  like 
distant  thunder  on  the  other  side  of  a  river ;  "  I  mean 
what  is  your  medium  heat?"  —  "Well,"  said  she,  "  as 
for  mediums,  I  don't  know  much  about  'em,  though 
there  was  a  great  heat  about  one  that  came  here,  that 
told  people  who  their  grandfathers  was  ;  but  it  cooled 
off,  arter  a  while.  They  could  n't  make  me  believe  that. 
But,  goodness  me,  look  at  that  boy  I"  She  pointed  to 
Ike  as  she  spoke,  who  had  donned  the  hat  of  the  visitor, 
12* 


138  COLD   WEATHER. 

and  was  making  a  feint  to  attack  the  stove-pipe  with  his 
cane,  having  on  his  arm  a  large  wash-boiler  cover  for  a 
shield,  and  a  pair  of  fierce  moustaches  painted  in  soot 
upon  his  upper  lip.  As  they  looked,  a  fierce  lungo 
conquered  the  adversary,  and  the  young  hero  stood 
triumphant,  brandishing  the  cane  in  his  hand,  and  shout- 
ing, "  Down  with  the  border  ruffian  !"  She  checked  him 
gently,  and,  as  her  visitor  regained  his  hat  and  stick, 
which  last  had  been  broken,  she  turned  to  him,  with 
much  satisfaction  in  her  manner,  and  asked  if  he  did  n't 
think  the  boy  had  talents  by  which  he  might  "  require 
a  reputation  ;  "  and  the  visitor  said  he  certainly  thought 
so.  Ike  knew  what  he  meant,  and  kept  a  safe  distance 
from  the  cane. 


COLD    WEATHER. 

WE  shiver  as  we  feel  the  biting  air, 

And  think  more  warmly  of  the  ones  who  suffer, 
Counting  how  much  of  change  we  have  to  spare 

For  those  who  wrestle  with  Old  Frost,  the  buffer ;  — 
Not  he  who  aldermanic  honors  gained 

By  public  favor  in  the  late  election, 
But  Jack  Frost,  who  our  comfort  has  profaned, 

And  now  assails  the  poor,  who  need  protection. 
Depend  upon  't,  cold  weather  is  the  time 

To  set  our  warm  heart's  blood  in  kindness  flowing, 
To  coin  itself  in  many  a  ready  dime,  • 

And  make  the  loan  the  Scripture  page  is  showing, 
For  which  a  four-fold  interest  is  given, 
Paid  at  the  eternal  banking-house  in  heaven  I 


AN  ANALOGY.  139 


AN    ANALOGY. 

SHOWING   A   FANCIED   EESEMBLANCE   BETWEEN   A   LITTLE   STREAM    OF  WATEB 
AND   A  LITTLE   LIFE. 

A  GENTLE  rill  gushed  from  the  breast  of  Spring, 
And  flowed  in  beauty  through  the  summer-land, 

Stealing  along,  just  like  some  bashful  thing, 
Half  hidden  by  the  boughs  that  o'er  it  spanned. 

But  the  wild  blossoms  in  its  mirrored  sheen 
Beheld  themselves  in  all  their  rustic  pride, 

And  the  tall  trees  assumed  a  brighter  green 
Because  they  stood  the  little  rill  beside. 

So  humble  was  it  that  the  dallying  grass 

Asked  not  the  question  whence  the  wanderer  came, 

And  the  proud  lilies,  as  they  felt  it  pass, 

Looked  down  upon  the  stream  of  modest  name. 

Yet  tenderly  the  sweet  rill  loved  the  flowers, 
And  the  great  trees  that  grew  upon  its  brink  ; 

It  saved  for  them  the  bounty  of  the  showers, 
And  filled  their  empty  cups  with  needed  drink. 

It  asked  for  no  return  ;  unselfishly 

It  moved,  content  that  it  was  doing  good 
Delighted  from  its  ministry  to  see 

The  gladness  of  a  green  beatitude. 

Anon  a  change  came  o'er  the  little  stream, — 
The  loving  sun  had  claimed  it  for  his  own, 

And,  like  some  fleeting  picture  in  a  dream, 
In  all  its  quiet  beauty  it  had  flown. 

The  flowers  grew  sickly  that  had  erewhile  dwelt 

Upon  its  banks  in  queenliness  of  state, 
The  sturdy  trees  its  unlocked  absence  felt, 

The  lilies  withered,  beautiful  of  late. 

The  grasses  sighed  in  sallow  discontent, 
And  all  confessed  the  rill  a  friend  most  true, 

Contrite  that  its  sweet  life  should  thus  be  spent 
Before  its  loving  offices  they  knew. 


140  NAHANT.    - 

'T  is  thus  we  've  seen  some  gentle  loving  one 
Noiselessly  moving  through  the  paths  of  life, 

Here  cheering  sadness  with  her  voice's  tone, 
There  giving  tears  as  mollients  to  strife ; 

Singing  with  bird-like  sweetness  on  her  way. 
From  the  outgushing  of  her  teeming  heart, 

As  the  airs  blow,  or  the  bright  waters  play, 
Unknowing  the  blest  influence  they  impart. 

"We  value  not  the  blessing  by  our  side 

Until,  down-stricken  by  some  fatal  blight, 

We  feel  it  with  our  joy  identified, 

And  mourn  the  star  now  hidden  from  our  sight. 

The  noisy  consequence  of  life  may  claim 
The  tribute  of  attention  at  our  hand, 

But  't  is  the  little  acts  of  humble  name 

That  make  our  hearts  with  blessedness  expand. 


NAHANT. 

NAHANT  !  bold  battler  of  the  mighty  sea, 

My  harp  would  sound  one  note  to  swell  thy  glory 
How  much  of  health  and  beauty  dwells  in  thee, 

Thou  hard,  solidified  old  promontory  ! 
I  rest  me  here,  and  feel  thy  breezes  free 

Filling  my  ears  with  their  enchanting  story  ; 
I  hear  the  sea  around  me  ceaselessly 

Curling  about  thy  base  its  big  waves  hoary. 
0,  beautiful !  I  cry,  delightedly, 

Here  would  I  end  my  life  so  transitory, 
Climbing  the  rocks  in  plenitude  of  glee, 

Or  catching  mackerel  in  a  little  dory. 
Great  is  Nahant,  by  Neptune  loved  and  Flora,— 
Esteemed  by  all,  beside,  whose  bent  is  piscatorf 


NUMBER  ONE  HUNDRED   AND   ONE.  141 

NUMBER    ONE    HUNDRED   AND    ONE. 

MEEELT  A   LOCAL  ITEM. 

IT  is  a  strange  title  to  a  very  strange  story,  which,  I 
should  not  be  willing  to  swear  to  the  correctness  of,  if 
any  one  but  myself  had  told  it.  But  here  is  the  tale, 
believe  it  or  not.  I  am  a  remarkably  sensitive  man, 
keenly  alive  to  the  beautiful  in  nature  or  art, —  have  in 
my  lifetime  gone  miles  out  of  my  way  to  see  a  beauti- 
ful face,  and  a  glimpse  of  some  picturesque  scene  of 
sea  or  shore  has  driven  me  wild  with  delight.  I  had 
arrived  in  Boston  from  an  old  bachelor  jaunt  to  the 
White  Hills,  solitary  and  alone.  On  such  occasions  I 
cannot  bear  to  have  any  one  with  me.  A  voice  dis- 
turbs me,  and  grates  upon  my  nerves.  I  have  turned 
almost  hermit,  and  forsworn  men,  merely  because  a 
frivolous  fool  has  cried  out  some  commonplace  exclam- 
ation upon  viewing  scenes  that  nothing  but  expressive 
silence  could  do  justice  to.  An  exception  to  this,  how- 
ever, must  be  made  in  favor  of  the  militia  captain  on 
Mount  Washington,  who,  in  delight  at  the  sublimity  of 
the  scene  before  him,  cried,  "  Attention,  the  universe  ! " 
There  must  be  an  exception  in  this  case,  of  course. 

I  arrived  in  Boston,  after  an  absence  of  some  years 
from  it,  —  almost  a  stranger  in  it,  though  I  remembered 
Faneuil  Hall,  and  the  Old  South,  and  the  Old  Province 
House,  and  the  Old  Jail,  that  stood  where  the  Court- 
house was,  and  old  "  101,"  where  I  had  made  my  homo 
for  several  years,  in  a  retired  up-stairs  back  room,  that 
overlooked  a  large  garden,  and  commanded  a  fine  view 
of  the  country  round  about.  .  Here  I  returned,  and,  by 
good  luck,  as  I  thought,  engaged  my  former  apartment, 
which  the  landlady  informed  me  could  be  vacated  for 
me  immediately.  I  did  not  take  possession  till  late  in 


142        NUMBER  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  ONE. 

the  evening,  and  reserved  my  first  glance  for  the  objects 
of  my  admiration  for  the  morning,  as  soon  as  I  should 
rise.  I  went  to  sleep  dreaming  of  garden  walks  and 
summer-houses,  and  clustering  blossoms,  that  formed 
the  inner  side  of  a  wide  horizon  of  beauty,  which  I 
gazed  on  with  uninterrupted  delight,  when  the  clatter 
of  a  milkman's  quart-pot  upon  a  gate  knocked  me  all 
awake  in  a  moment,  and  I  was  conscious  that  it  was 
morning,  and  the  sun  was  shining  in  at  my  window. 

I  immediately  arose  and  dressed  myself,  when,  plac- 
ing my  chair  close  to  the  window,  I  drew  aside  the 
curtain.  What !  the  garden  had  disappeared,  gone, 
and  the  beautiful  scene  which  so  long  had  gladdened 
me  was  obscured  by  a  red,  flaming  brick  wall,  without  a 
window  in  it,  the  back  of  a  block  of  stores  on  another 
street.  I  reached  out  of  the  window  and  looked  down 
upon  a  shed  where  I  had  in  old  times  seen  damsels,  in 
the  blush  of  youth  and  morning,  hanging  out  clothes ; 
but  the  shed  had  disappeared,  and  a  long  brick  L  pro- 
truded in  its  stead,  with  a  glass  roof,  beneath  which  1 
could  see  workmen  in  their  shirt-sleeves  moving  to  and 
fro.  I  fancied,  in  my  first  disappointment,  that  every- 
thing which  I  had  regarded  was  swept  away,  and,  hum- 
ming to  myself  some  original  lines,  that  just  then 
occurred  to  me,  beginning 

"  'Twas  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 
I  've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay," 

]  was  about  closing  the  curtain,  when  I  saw,  through 
a  little  vista  between  the  buildings,  a  beautiful  view  of 
a  fair  scene  beyond,  —  clear  sky,  green  trees,  and  dis- 
tance,—  made  more  beautiful  from  the  difficulty  through 
which  it  was  seen.  I  thought  I  should  become  recon- 
ciled in  a  little  while  to  the  loss  of  the  rest,  could  I 


NUMBER  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  ONE.        143 

retain  this.  Whenever  I  was  in  the  house  I  took  my 
station  by  my  window,  and  enjoyed  with  miserly  regard 
my  buena  vista. 

But  "  a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream."  I 
found  one  day  a  source  of  extreme  nervous  anxiety  to 
me  right  in  the  way  of  my  enjoyment.  Some  demon, 
with  a  special  disposition  to  torment  me,  had  leased  a 
room  in  a  corner  of  my  vista  —  the  proscenium-box,  so 
to  speak  —  to  an  unappreciative  wretch,  who,  with  a 
levity  that  deserved  the  thumb-screws,  had  placed  a 
large  bust  of  Shakespeare  in  the  window,  and  put 
thereon  a  red  shirt  and  black  neck-cloth,  and  had 
covered  the  head  with  an  old  straw  hat,  making  the 
great  bard  of  Avon  look  as  if  he  had  just  returned  from 
some  jolly  bout  in  the  harbor,  or  some  deer-stealing 
operation  in  the  country.  I  shut  my  window  in  dis- 
gust. The  next  day  I  looked.  The  bust  was  still 
there,  with  the  addition  of  a  black  moustache.  1 
dropped  into  a  seat.  The  third  day  a  large  green  patch 
was  placed  over  one  eye.  The  fourth  day  a  hole  had 
been  made  through  the  lips,  and  Shakespeare  was 
actually  smoking  a  long  nine  !  Shade  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  !  but  my  blood  boiled  at  the  outrage  upon 
me  and  upon  Shakespeare.  I  tried  to  think  of  some 
remedy  for  the  nuisance,  and  went  out  to  reconnoitre 
the  premises.  I  found  there  was  a  narrow  alley  lead- 
ing to  the  shed  which  formed  the  outer  bound  of  the 
territory  where  my  annoyance  was  placed,  and  that 
from  this,  with  a  moderately  long  stick,  I  could  reach 
the  hated  object,  push  it  from  its  position  in  the  window, 
and  dash  it  to  pieces.  My  plan  was  formed,  and  that 
night  I  resolved  it  should  be  executed. 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  summer  night,  with  Tar- 
quin's  strides,  and  a  footfall  as  light  as  a  cat's,  I  was  on 


144        NUMBER  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  ONE. 

my  way  to  my  revenge,  armed  with  resolution  and  a 
long  cane-pole  that  I  had  procured  for  the  purpose. 
The  alley-way  was  dark,  which  favored  me,  and  1 
gained  my  destination  without  detection.  A  moment 
more  and  I  stood  on  the  shed,  which  commanded  a  view 
of  the  room  in  the  open  window  of  which  my  bane  was 

resting.     A  moment  more 

It  was  a  warm  night,  and,  as  unpropitious  fortune 
would  have  it,  directly  below  the  window  where  the 
bust  was  resting,  the  cook  was  sitting  with  her  lover  in 
the  dark,  talking  preliminary  matters  incident  to  matri- 
mony. The  oppressive  heat  had  made  them  drowsy, 
and,  leaning  their  heads  upon  the  window-sill,  they  were 
both  fast  asleep.  They  had  not  heard  my  step  upon  the 
shed.  Crash  !  Down  came  the  bust,  red  shirt,  hat,  and 
all,  and  planted  itself  directly  between  them ;  and  as  the 
lover  opened  his  eyes  he  was  astonished  to  find  a  mas- 
culine form  between  him  and  his  dear.  His  first  im- 
pulse was  carried  out,  to  plump  the  figure  betwixt  the 
eyes ;  his  next  was  carried  out  with  equal  promptness, 
to  let  it  alone  —  for  his  knuckles  were  hurt.  At  this 
instant  he  caught  a  view  of  the  outline  of  my  retiring 
figure,  and,  bounding  through  the  window,  he  darted 
out  of  the  shed-door,  meeting  me,  as  I  descended,  with  a 
warm  embrace  and  an  energetic  exclamation,  which  I 
construed  into  "  Watch  I"  I  was  much  gratified, 
besides,  to  hear  the  windows  in  the  vicinity  open,  as  if 
a  public  interest  were  awakening.  Thanks  to  my 
science,  I  had  muscle  and  strength,  and  here  was  a  field 
for  their  operation.  I  used  them  with  a  will.  I 
punched  my  adversary  in  the  dark,  and  he  was  so  busy 
in  taking  care  of  himself  that  he  ceased  to  halloo  for  the 
watch.  At  this  moment,  a  blow  aimed  at  my  head  by 
the  cook,  who  had  emerged  from  the  shed,  took  effect 


NUMBER  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  ONE,        145 

on  his,  and  he  rolled  upon  the  ground,  defeated,  while  I 
hastened  off. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  in  my  room.  I  looked  out, 
and  could  see  lights  moving  in  the  house  I  had  just  left, 
as  if  the  garrison  were  aroused.  I  went  to  bed  happy. 
My  object  was  achieved.  The  next  morning,  to  enjoy 
my  triumph,  I  looked  towards  the  hated  window.  My 
crest  fell  immediately,  for  there,  upon  the  window- 
frame,  was  the  bust  of  Shakespeare,  with  the  red  shirt 
still  upon  it ;  but,  instead  of  the  old  straw  hat  upon  its 
head,  my  own  hat,  with  my  name  in  it,  that,  I  forgot  to 
say,  I  had  left  upon  the  field. 

The  papers,  the  next  day,  were  full  of  it,  and  refei- 
eiice  to  the  Columbian  Centinel  files  for  June,  1838, 
will  show  the  following : 

DARING  OUTRAGE.  —  Last  evening  a  burglarious  at- 
tempt was  made  to  enter  the  house  of  Mr.  T.  Speed,  in 

street ;  but  the   burglar  threw  down  a  bust  of 

Shakespeare  in  the  attempt,  which  attracted  the  attention 
of  Mr.  Muggins,  passing  at  the  time,  who  pursued  the 
ruffian  over  a  shed,  and  boldly  attacked  him  in  Marsh 
alley,  when  the  villain  drew  a  pistol  and  threatened  to 
shoot  his  assailant,  who  persistingly  stuck  to  him  until 
a  blow  from  the  butt  of  the  pistol  knocked  him  down, 
and  the  rascal  escaped,  leaving  his  hat  on  the  premises, 
in  which  was  the  name  0.  Hush.  Mr.  Muggins  treated 
him  very  severely,  and  it  is  believed  the  atrocious 
wretch  may  be  detected  by  the  injury  he  received. 
The  police  are  upon  his  track. 

It  had  happened,  fortunately,  that  I  was  to  pay  for 
my  accommodations  by  the  quarter.     The  landlady  was 
the  only  one  who  knew  my  name,  and  her  reply  to  the 
13  10 


146  CONTENTMENT. 

i 

questions  with  regard  to  it  having  been  simply  "  Hush," 
it  had  been  deemed  that  she  wished  to  keep  shady 
about  the  matter,  and  they  had  hushed.  The  old  lady 
did  not  read  the  papers,  and  I  was  safe  from  her  ;  but 
I  thought  it  advisable  to  leave  that  afternoon  by  stage 
for  the  mountains.  Before  leaving,  I  glanced  from  the 
window.  The  bust  was  still  there,  and  it  seemed  that 
the  features  wore  a  malicious  smile  of  satisfaction  at 
my  discomforture.  I  slammed  the  door  to  with  a 
bang,  and  bade  good-by  to  Number  One  Hundred  and 
One, 


CONTENTMENT. 

THERE  is  no  virtue  like  it  under  heaven, 

And  he  whose  life  is  crowned  with  sweet  content 
Is  rich  as  though  old  Croesus'  wealth  were  given, 

E'en  though,  in  fact,  he  be  not  worth  a  cent. 
There  is  no  bound  to  man's  ambitious  schemes  : 

His  eager  palm  outspreads  as  on  he  goes, 
Gold  shimmers  down  through  all  his  daily  dreams. 

The  verb  "  to  get"  the  only  one  he  knows. 
How  blest  is  he  who,  whate'er  may  betide, 

Sits  smiling  at  the  boon  which  fortune  sends ; 
Who  God's  own  finger  has  identified, 

And  deems  that  all  he  suffers  rightly  tend*  ! 
And  I  myself  am  something  of  this  stuff, 
Always  contented  when  I  have  enough. 


THE   OLD  PIANO.  147 


THE    OLD    PIANO. 

[The  following  lines  are  supposed  to  embody  the  feelings  6t  one  who  stands  amid  -the 
wreck  of  her  ruined  fortunes,  and  finds  in  the  memories  of  the  past  a  solace  for  the  present 
It  is  not  altogether  a  fancy  sketch.] 

WHEN  the  evening  falls  around  me, 

And  my  room  is  hushed  and  calm, 
Come  to  me  long-vanished  pleasures,  — 

Come  the  wormwood  and  the  balm ; 
Loving  faces  smile  upon  me, 

Faces  long  beneath  the  mould, 
Loving  lips  mine  own  are  pressing, 

Lips  that  long  ago  grew  cold. 

0,  the  voices  !  how  they  whisper  ! 

And  I  strain  my  eager  ear,  • 
Not  to  lose  a  word  whose  meaning 

All  my  spirit  thrills  to  hear  ; 
And  amid  the  tones  they  utter, 

Weaving  through  them  like  a  thread, 
Comes  a  strain  of  distant  music, 

Echo  of  a  strain  long  fled. 

From  amid  the  brooding  shadows, 

And  the  shapes  that  come  and  go, 
Hark  !  the  old  piano  murmurs 

With  a  note  I  dearly  know  ; 
And  my  soul  in  transport  listens 

To  the  keys'  familiar  tone, 
As  the  shadowy  fingers  touch  them 

With  a  love  they  erst  have  known. 

Joyful  notes  of  sweetest  meaning 

Tinkle  in  my  wakeful  brain, 
As  upon  the  parching  foliage 

Sounds  the  grateful  summer  rain  ; 
Mournful  notes  of  import  tender 

Sighingly  my  heart  receives, 
As  amid  the  evening  breezes 

Sighs  the  cadence  of  the  leaves. 

'T  was  a  phantom,  —  an  illusion,— 

And  the  voices  all  have  flown, 
Leaving  me  here  desolated, 

In  my  widowhood  alone 


148  IKE   AT   CHURCH. 

But  the  old  piano  lingers, 
And  about  its  dreamy  strings 

Rests  the  memory  of  fingers, 
And  their  pleasant  utterings. 

Now  it  takes  angelic  seeming, 

Calling  me,  with  hopeful  voice, 
From  the  land  where  peace  and  gladness 

Through  eternal  hours  rejoice ; 
And  I  feel  the  hand  extended 

Of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 
Grasping  mine  amid  the  darkness, 

With  the  fervency  of  yore. 

How  I  love  it !  —  like  a  sister, 

Ever  faithful  by  my  side, 
Patient  in  my  fallen  fortunes, 

Loving  in  my  hours  of  pride  ; 
It  is  not  to  me  insensate, 

And  I  'm  sure  it  feels  with  me, 
Sorrowing  in  my  saddened  momenta, 

Laughing  in  my  hours  of  glee. 

Blessings  on  thee,  old  piano  ! 

While  I  live  we  ne'er  shall  part, 
For  thy  melody  is  woven 

With  the  pulses  of  my  heart. 
Years  may  dim  my  mortal  vision, 

And  my  raven  hair  turn  gray, 
But  my  wasted  life  is  blended 

With  the  thoughts  that  round  thee  stay. 


IKE    AT    CHURCH. 

"  WHAT  do  you  think  will  become  of  you?"  said  Mrs. 
Partington  to  Ike,  as  they  were  going  from  church. 
The  question  related  to  the  young  gentleman's  conduct 
in  the  church,  where  he  had  tipped  over  the  cricket, 
peeped  over  the  gallery,  attracting  the  attention  of  a 
boy  in  the  pew  below,  by  dropping  a  pencil  tied  with  a 
string  upon  his  head,  and  had  drawn  a  hideous  picture 


"0,  Isaac,'"  continued  she,  earnestly,  "  what  do  you  want  to  act  so  like  tbo 
probalile  son,  for?"     P.  149. 


SOUNDS   OF  THE  SUMMER  NIGHT.  149 

of  a  dog  upon  the  snow-white  cover  of  the  best  hymn- 
book. —  "Where  do  you  expect  to  go  to?"  It  was  a 
question  that  the  youngster  had  never  before  had  put 
to  him  quite  so  closely,  and  he  said  he  did  n't  know, 
but  thought  he'd  like  to  go  up  in  a  balloon. — "I'm 
afeard  you  '11  go  down,  if  you  don't  mend  your  ways, 
rather  than  go  up.  You  have  been  acting  very  bad  in 
meeting,"  continued  she,  "  and  I  declare  I  could  hardly 
keep  from  boxing  your  ears  right  in  the  midst  of  the 
lethargy.  You  did  n't  pay  no  interest,  and  I  lost  all  the 
thread  of  the  sermon,  through  your  tricks." — "I  didn't 
take  your  thread,"  said  Ike,  who  thought  she  alluded  to 
the  string  by  which  the  pencil  was  lowered  upon  the 
boy ;  "  that  was  a  fishing-line."  —  "  0,  Isaac,"  continued 
she,  earnestly,  "  what  do  you  want  to  act  so  like  the 
probable  son,  for?  Why  don't  you  try  and  be  like 
David  and  Deuteronomy,  that  we  read  about,  and  act 
in  a  reprehensible  manner  ? "  The  appeal  was  touching, 
and  Ike  was  silent,  thinking  of  the  sling  that  David  killed 
Goliath  with  and  wondering  if  he  could  n't  make  one. 


SOUNDS   OF  THE  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

THE  soft  winds  sigh  above  the  slumbering  flowers, 

And  tremble  'mid  the  tresses  of  the  trees ; 
A  child's  sharp  cry  disturbs  the  solemn  hours, 

That  woman's  voice  endeavors  to  appease  ; 
A  dull  piano's  melancholy  strains 

Fall  faintly  on  my  ear,  borne  from  afar  ; 
A  night-key's  click  the  midnight  hush  profanes, 

And  harshly  clangs  a  door's  discordant  jar  ; 
A  dog  howls  dismally  across  the  way, 

Anon  darts  through  the  air  a  vengeful  stone  ; 
And  sounds  of  whispered  voices  hither  stray, 

Revealing  lovers'  vows  by  their  soft  tone  ; 
Yon  cat-calls  cut  discretion  to  the  quick,  — 
0,  that  kind  fate  would  grant  my  hand  a  brick  ! 
13* 


150  THE  HOUSEHOLD  SHADOW. 

THE   HOUSEHOLD    SHADOW. 

ALL  felt  badly  when  the  little  creature  sickened.  It 
was  a  fearful  disease,  and  the  burning  skin  and  the 
labored  breath  spoke  painfully  of  danger.  The  voice 
was  hushed  that  uttered  the  word  danger,  and  the  heart 
was  pained  as  the  ear  caught  the  fearful  sound.  Danger 
to  the  darling  that  love  so  clung  to,  and  surrounded, 
and  hemmed  in  !  and  alarm  awakened  more  vigilance, 
and  more  loving  care.  But  day  by  day  revealed  the 
inroads  of  the  insidious  disease,  burning  at  the  founda- 
tion of  the  precious  life ;  and  hope,  that  was  at  first 
strong  in  spite  of  fear,  grew  day  by  day  weaker.  How 
dear  she  grew !  —  how  much  dearer  than  when  in  thb 
fulness  of  health  and  beautiful  activity;  when  every 
impulse  was  a  joyous  outburst  of  conscious  existence ; 
when  her  little  arms  entwined  in  fond  conjunction  with 
loving  arms,  and  her  tender  kisses  were  rained  upon 
ready  lips,  as  the  sacrifice  of  innocent  love !  She  seemed 
doubly  dear;  and  the  imploring  look  for  aid,  in  par- 
oxysms of  pain,  sank  deep  into  hearts  rendered  sad  by 
a  sense  of  inability  to  help.  At  last  the  crisis  came. 
The  shadow  deepened  with  every  moment,  and  hope 
grew  less  and  less  ;  and,  when  the  darkness  that  comes 
before  the  light  of  morning  rested  upon  the  earth, 
another  little'  spirit  was  added  to  the  multitude  that 
had  gone  before,  like  fruit  untimely  plucked.  Then 
was  the  shadow  most  opaque  and  dismal,  and  the  house- 
hold was  very  dreary.  But  anon  the  morning  broke, 
and  the  sun  came  up ;  the  gloom  of  night  vanished  from 
the  clear  heavens  and  the  bright  earth,  and  it  was  day. 
So  with  the  shadow  over  the  household.  A  voice  came 
from  the  shadow,  speaking  peace  to  the  saddened  hearts. 
It  spoke  of  love  and  trust,  and  gave  sweet  assurance 


CHARACTER.  15l 

that  it  was  no  tyrant's  hand  that  had  smote  the  house- 
hold, in  the  wilfulness  of  power;  but  that  a  loving 
Father  had  lifted  up  the  lamb  from  the  weakness  and 
imperfection  of  human  trust  to  the  eternal  fold,  above 
the  storms  and  sorrows  and  sins  of  time ;  that  behind 
the  darkness  of  death  shone  the  clear  sun  of  eternal 
life,  and  that  the  morning  would  break,  and  the  dreary 
shadows  of  the  night,  now  obscuring  its  glory,  would 
flee  away  ;  that  the  loved  within  the  veil  were  walking 
beside  us  in  our  darkness,  to  bear  us  on  and  up,  their 
loving  hands  still  clasped  in  ours  1  Then  the  household 
shadow  changed,  and  a  holy  light  played  around  it; 
and,  though  it  was  still  a  shadow,  and  hid  the  loved 
from  view,  a  trust  born  of  faith  said,  IT  is  WELL,  and  the 
stricken  spirits  bowed  submissively  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 


CHARACTER. 

"  DEPEND  upon  it,  madam,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
"  that,  with  a  moral  basis,  men  may  risk  themselves  with 
any  temptation,  and  come  out  triumphant."  Mrs.  Par 
tington  placed  her  hand  gently  on  the  cuff  of  his  coat, 
and  just  three  grains  of  snuff  made  their  mark  upon  the 
broadcloth.  "  There 's  where  all  the  deficiency  is,"  said 
she.  "  'T  is  the  moral  baseness  that  does  it,  and  tempt- 
ation melts  'em  as  the  sun  does  the  grafting-wax,  and 
the  buds  don't  take  root,  however  strongly  they  may 
seem  to  be  set,  and  they  find,  after  all,  as  the  best  of 
us  do,  that  we  are  none  too  good."  The  schoolmaster 
brushed  off  the  snuff  as  she  removed  her  hand ;  but  the 
lesson  remained,  as  though  her  words  had  been  India- 
ink,  and  her  finger-points  the  needles  that  wrought  them 
in  enduring  form  upon  the  memory.  Ike  was  engaged 
in  twisting  a  fishing-line  upon  the  big  wheel. 


A  LEAF  FROM  A  RECORD. 


A  LEAF  FROM  A  RECORD. 

I  STOOD  on  Salem's  wizard  hill, 

My  sinking  soul  by  terror  daunted ; 
The  summer  wind  blew  strangely  chill, 
My  fluttering  heart  would  not  be  still, 
Upon  that  upper  land  enchanted. 

,,!  felt  a  Presence  by  my  side  — 

Old  Roger  Conant  touched  my  shoulder : 
My  heart  sent  back  its  rushing  tide, 
As  I  that  awful  touch  descried, 

And  the  cool  breeze  seemed  growing  colder. 

Then  spake  the  Presence — not  by  word, 

But  by  what  people  call  impression : 
My  soul  alone  the  language  heard, 
For  Roger's  lips  no  moment  stirred 
From  long  accustomed  grave  possession 

"  I  welcome  you  to  this  fair  scene, 

Endowed  with  beauty,  grace,  and  riches; 
Few  brighter  spots  than  this,  I  ween, 
You  '11  find  our  nation's  bounds  between, 
Yet  this  was  once  the  hold  of  witches. 

"  Around  you  dusky  shadows  glide 
Of  those  who  made  a  bloody  story 

Yonder  is  Burroughs  sanctified, 

With  Mary  Easty,  grace  denied, 
And  here  is  sturdy  old  Giles  Cory. 

"  And  angel  Martha  Cory  's  nigh, — 
No  saint  in  heaven's  courts  is  sweeter,  — 

With  Alice  Parker  standing  by ; 

And  old  George  Jacobs  here  doth  hie, 
With  Margaret  Scott  and  Ann  Pudeatefr. 

"  The  list  is  large,  but  not  a  whit 
Of  anger  now  is  felt  among  'em  ; 

And  often  round  this  hill  they  flit, 

Or  here  upon  this  summit  sit, 
In  friendship  with  the  ones  who  swung  'em. 


A  LEAF  FROM  A  RECORD.  153 

••  E'en  now,  my  friend,  while  here  we  talk, 

Witch-hangers  round  among  us  gather : 
Yonder  old  Parson  Paris  stalks, 
And  Justice  Hathorne  hither  walks, 

Locked  arm  in  arm  with  Cotton  Mather. 


"  They  carted  them  to  Gallows  Hill, 

Without  a  tear,  or  sigh,  or  blessing ; 
And  then  around,  as  I  am  still, 
I  saw  their  cup  of  sorrow  fill, 

But  could  not  change  their  fate  distressing. 

"  And  yonder  were  the  locust-trees 
On  which  were  seen  their  bodies  swinging, 

While  pious  prayers  from  bended  knees, 

And  sacrifices  God  to  appease, 
Rose  from  this  spot,  toward  heaven  winging. 

"  You  know,  of  course,  the  matter  dark, 

For  Upham  's  told  you  all  the  story, 
And  Poole's  bright  muse  has  made  its  mark, 
And  'lumed  with  wit's  effulgent  spark 

That  page  inscribed  with  letters  gory. 

"  But  don't  condemn  those  men  severe, 
Nor  by  your  bushel  their  grain  measure ; 

As  honest  they  to  me  appear 

As  you  in  this  enlightened  year, 
Who  knowledge,  wealth,  and  power,  treasure. 

"  God's  glory  was  their  guiding  aim, 

Much  more  than  yours,  who  've  often  spurned  it ; 
And,  though  to  you  it  seem  a  shame 
To  kill  a  witch  by  cord  or  name, 

The  word  was  plain  as  they  had  learned  it. 

"  Please  not  a  word — one  single  thought 

Annuls  all  cavilling  and  stricture  : 
Those  darksome  times,  with  horror  fraught, 
Round  which  such  hideous  tales  are  wrought, 

Are  shadows  to  a  glorious  picture. 

•'  Your  landscape  were  but  tamely  shown 
'Neath  everlasting  summer  weather ; 


THE   CABLE. 

Grand  and  effective  't  is  alone 
When  contrasts  in  one  field  are  thrown,— 
A  beauteous  whole  when  viewed  together. 

•*  The  shadows  are  of  darksome  hue, 

Not  fading  out  or  evanescent ; 
And  bright  by  contrast  is  the  view 
Of  beauties  that  the  scene  bestrew, 

That  makes  the  picture  of  TUB  PRESENT. 

"  There 's  Salem  now,  in  beauteous  guise,  — • 
It  does  my  soul  delight  to  mind  it, — 

Shines  fairer  far  to  thoughtful  eyes, 

As  in  its  affluence  there  it  lies, 

With  sombre  Gallows  Hill  behind  it." 

The  Presence  clipped  the  spectral  thread 

It  garrulously  had  been  spinning, 
When,  nodding  with  its  shadowy  head, 
It  turned  about  with  shadowy  tread, 
And  left  me  there  as  at  beginning. 


THE    CABLE.* 

TUB  earth  is  jubilant,  and  for  and  near, 

From  widest  east  and  west,  and  north  and  south, 
One  note  of  great  rejoicing  do  we  hear — 

"  The  cable"  is  in  everybody's  mouth. 
•'  Good  will  to  men  ! " — thus  runs  the  golden  line 

That  thrilled  the  air  o'er  the  Judean  plains, 
That  loses  not  its  attribute  divine, 

Though  uttered  in  sub-oceanic  strains. 
How  strange  it  is !  and  unbelieving  sneers 

Die  out  in  silence  with  the  cynic's  laugh, 
When  warm  hearts,  throbbing  in  two  hemispheres. 

Mingle  their  sympathies  by  telegraph ! 
The  cable  is  the  best  egg  ever  made  — 
No  wonder  all  rejoice  that  it  is  laid. 

A  slight  lay  to  the  Atlantic  cable  ;  —  will  answer  for  any  future  attomr* 


A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS 
PEOPLE. 

LITTLE  Mrs.  Staples  was  one  of  the  neatest,  prettiest, 
and  most  sensible  women  in  the  world  ;  and  she  had  a 
husband  who  loved  her  very  dearly,  and  who  strove  by 
every  means  in  his  power  to  make  her  happy.  But 
there  was  a  lion  in  little  Mrs.  Staples'  path,  —  a  vora- 
cious and  hungry  lion,  waiting  at  every  step  to  de- 
stroy her.  Not  really  to  destroy  her,  but  her  domestic 
happiness,  which  is  the  life  of  a  true  woman.  That  lion 
was  jealousy ;  an  insidious,  lurking,  and  crafty  monster, 
that  Shakespeare  endows  with  green  eyes ;  but  of  this 
I  know  nothing,  deeming  it,  however,  very  probable,  as 
cats  have  eyes  of  a  greenish  cast.  She  was  jealous,  and 
did  not  know  it ;  and  was  all  the  time  conjuring  up  the 
queerest  fancies  about  Staples,  in  which  there  was  a 
chaotic  blending  of  other  lips  and  eyes  and  curls  than 
her  own,  with  no  distinctness  of  arrangement ;  mostly 
fancies,  as  indeed  were  sundry  nods  and  winks,  which 
that  same  blind  horse,  Fancy,  detected  and  construed 
into  positive  kicks  at  the  domestic  peace  of  little  Mrs. 
Staples. 

Little  Mrs.  Staples  loved  her  husband,  Jeremiah,  with 
as  much  love  as  she  had  to  bestow ;  but  it  was  not  the 
love  that  so  fills  the  heart  as  to  crowd  out  all  fear  or 
doubt  of  the  one  beloved  ;  a  love  which  would  sacrifice 
even  its  own  happiness,  in  order  to  secure  the  happi- 

(155) 


156     A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE. 

ness  of  its  object.  Hers  was  no  more  unselfish  than  ia 
the  love  of  nine-tenths  of  the  world's  people,  which  in- 
sists upon  an  equivalent  for  its  sacrifices.  But  this  is  a 
point  too  nice  for  our  present  purpose,  as  we  are  only 
to  deal  with  things  just  as  they  are ;  and  little  Mrs.  Sta- 
ples was  jealous.  Of  whom  ?  Of  no  one  in  particular  ; 
of  woman-kind  in  general,  I  believe.  Jeremiah  could 
not  speak  of  a  female  without  an  instant  imagining  of 
all  possible  things  by  the  little  woman,  who,  in  her 
pride,  deemed  that  her  husband  was  such  a  fine-look- 
ing fellow  that  he  had  but  to  look  at  a  woman,  —  the 
finest,  grandest  in  the  world,  —  and  she  was  his,  like  a 
fly  caught  with  molasses.  He  was,  however,  but  an 
ordinary  specimen  of  a  man  to  look  at,  and  was  by  no 
means  a  "  lady's  man,"  as  the  world  understands  the 
term.  True  he  had  many  lady  friends,  and  esteemed 
them  for  qualities  of  mind  or  soul  that  were  congenial 
with  his  own ;  but,  so  far  from  being  objects  of  Mrs. 
Staples'  jealousy,  they  were  of  a  character  to  subdue 
such  feeling  in  that  estimable  lady's  heart,  had  she 
given  them  credit  for  like  feelings  of  honesty  and  vir- 
tue with  herself.  But  it  is  unfortunately  the  case  with 
jealous  people  that  the  standard  of  virtue  is  raised 
very  high  by  them,  and  they  themselves  come  up  to 
its  requirements  in  the  same  degree  that  the  suspected 
ones  fall  off.  It  was  astonishing  what  trivial  things 
would  provoke  whole  chapters  of  theories  in  that  little 
woman's  brain.  A  ravelling  of  calico,  a  hair,  a  scrap  of 
paper,  anything  was  sufficient  to  hang  a  theory  upon, 
which  was  speedily  and  satisfactorily  prepared  and  laid 
away  in  some  pigeon-hole  of  her  mind  for  future  refer- 
ence ;  for  little  Mrs.  Staples  did  not  make  much  parade 
of  her  feelings,  and,  save  an  occasional  spasm,  when 
Jeremiah  was  away  for  an  evening  in  a  manner  that 


A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE.  157 

seemed  mysterious,  the  domesticity  of  Jeremiah  Staples 
was  placid.  But  the  theories  laid  away  in  the  pigeon- 
holes mu^t  be  brought  out. 

"  Who  was  that  lady  your  husband  was  walking  with, 
this  afternoon,  in  Washington-street  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Spigh 
to  little  Mrs.  Staples,  one  day. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  the  little  woman,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  apron  to  hide  her  tears  that 
suddenly  gushed  out,  and  sobbing  as  though  her  poor 
heart  would  break. 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  I  asked,"  said  the  estimable  Mrs. 
Spigh,  who  had  the  key  to  the  happiness  of  the  whole 
neighborhood  in  her  possession,  and  judiciously  dashed 
a  sprinkling  of  discord  around  it,  now  and  then,  in  order 
that  people  might  remember  that  they  were  not  in 
heaven,  —  a  thing  very  likely  to  occur  where  her 
voice  was  heard.  "  I  am  really  sorry  I  asked,"  contin- 
ued she,  "  since  it  affects  you  so  ;  but  I  always  think  it 
a  favor  if  anybody  '11  tell  me  when  they  see  Spigh  walk 
ing  with  anybody.  I  think  it 's  a  duty  we  owe  one 
another,  Mrs.  Staples,  when  men  is  so  wicked  and  so 
inconstable.  Mr.  Staples  was  a  walking  with  a  light 
complected  woman  ;  and  she  was  a  smiling  on  to  him 
in  a  manner  that  I  did  n't  think  becoming,  a  bit.  I  even 
see  her  squeeze  his  arm  in  a  manner  that  no  decent 
woman  would  another  woman's  husband.  But  you  are 
the  patientiest  woman  alive."  She  went  out  with  a 
tender  and  commiserating  sigh. 

The  apron  had  not  been  removed  from  the  face,  nor 
the  weeping  suspended,  from  the  time  when  Mrs.  Spigh 
went  out  and  Jeremiah  came  in  to  his  supper,  and 
found  it  not  ready. 

"  Hallo  ! "  said   he,  in   a  boisterously   good-natured 
tone ;  "  what 's  the  matter,  little  wife  ?    What 's  broke 
14 


158     A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE. 

now  ?  What 's  for  supper  ?  "  at  the  same  time,  play- 
fully trying  to  remove  the  apron  from  her  head,  evi- 
dently deeming  it  some  sort  of  affectionate  bo-peep, 
where  he  was  to  discover  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  laugh- 
ing out  upon  him,  and  a  pair  of  soft,  warm  lips  to  bid 
him  welcome,  and  seal  the  welcome  with  a  kiss. 

No  reply  but  a  sob.  The  poor  fellow  felt  badly,  and 
asked,  in  a  soothing  tone,  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nun-nun-nun-nothing,"  came  at  length  from  beneath 
the  apron,  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  grief;  and  then  he 
knew  that  something  was  the  matter,  and  resolutely 
took  away  the  apron,  and  looked  at  the  red,  weeping 
eyes  it  concealed. 

"  Now,  wife,"  said  he,  "  I  insist  on  knowing  what 
is  the  matter.  Your  sorrow  pains  me,  and  I  want  to 
relieve  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  still  sobbing,  though  speaking  now 
with  an  emotion  of  temper  mingling  with  her  quiet 
tones,  "yes,  you  care  —  very  much  —  for  me  —  I  dare 
say — when  you  can  spend  the  time  —  away  from  me — 
in  waiting  upon  —  other  women ! "  The  last  two  words 
were  uttered  with  startling  energy. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  the  wind  sets  in  that  quarter, 
does  it  ?  My  friend  Mrs.  Spigh  has  been  here,  has  she  ? 
I  saw  her,  and  thought  she  would  come.  Now,  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  torment  you  and  that  excellent  neigh- 
bor into  a  fever,  by  not  explaining  anything ;  but,  little 
wife,  I  love  you  too  well  to  torment  you,  though  you 
think  I  do  not.  Here,  wifey,  is  the  cause  of  your 
trouble:  my  sister  Jenny,  from  Illinois,  the  little  girl 
who  went  away,  —  the  beautiful  woman  who  has  come 
back.  I  got  a  despatch  from  New  York,  to  meet  her  at 
the  cars,  and  intended  a  joyful  surprise  for  you ;  and 


A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOE  JEALOUS  PEOPLE.     159 

now  see  what  a  scene  you  have  made  of  it,  —  no  sup* 
per,  no  welcome  ! " 

"  Yes,  Jere  dear,  yes,"  cried  she,  springing  up,  and, 
in  her  joy,  kissing  her  husband  and  his  sister  over  and 
over  again ;  "  yes,  yes,  a  thousand  welcomes,  a  thou- 
sand welcomes !  I  was  mad  to  doubt  you,  my  dear  Jere, 
—  very  mad.  Please,  dear  sister  Jenny,  believe  me, 
you  are  very,  very  welcome  ! "  She  wrung  her  hand 
again,  and  kissed  her  again,  and  bustled  about,  in  the 
cheerfulness  of  restored  confidence,  to  get  her  evening 
meal,  for  the  little  wife  did  not  know  the  luxury  of  a 
servant. 

"  I  came  in  to  see,"  said  Mrs.  Spigh,  opening  the  door 
very  noiselessly  and  looking  in,  "  if  your  husband  has 
got  home,  Mrs.  Staples,  because  I  want  to  know  if  he 
has  seen  anything  of  my  husband."  She  was  evidently 
surprised,  and  appeared  somewhat  miserable,  at  finding 
her  little  neighbor  so  cheerful  under  her  wrong ;  and 
looked  at  her  in  a  manner  that  said,  "  Well,  you  ;re  the 
most  cheerful  martyr  I  ever  saw." 

"  You  can  ask  husband,  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Staples, 
with  her  face  radiant  with  the  fire-light  and  the  smile 
that  played  about  it ;  "  and  you  will  find  him  in  the 
next  room."  She  pointed  to  the  little  parlor,  the  door 
of  which  was  snugly  closed,  and  Mrs.  Spigh  softly 
entered,  like  a  cat. 

No  wonder  she  at  first  started  back,  for  there  upon 
the  sofa  was  Jeremiah  Staples,  —  the  husband  of  little 
Mrs.  Staples,  the  martyr  now  in  the  kitchen,  —  sitting 
upon  the  sofa,  his  arm  about  her  waist,  with  the  iden- 
tical "  light-complected  woman  "  she  had  seen  with  him 
in  Washington-street !  And  so  shameless  was  he,  that 
he  didn't  change  his  position  on  her  entrance,  and 
looked  up  with  a  brazen  effrontery  that  in  the  eyes  of 


160    A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE. 

that  excellent  neighbor  was  horrifying.  Recovering 
her  speech,  at  last,  she  said, 

"  Mr.  Staples,  have  you  seen  my  husband  since 
dinner  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "  I  have  not ;  but  some  pry- 
ing, spying  old  woman  has,  perhaps,  and  may  run  in,  by 
and  by,  to  tell  you  where  she  has  seen  him." 

Mrs.  Spigh  passed  away ;  and  the  slamming  of  the 
outside  door  denoted  an  energy  that  was  remarkable, 
which  Mr.  Staples  smiled  to  hear. 

Mrs.  Spigh  moved  from  that  sorrowing  neighborhood 
with  the  wrong  done  her  fresh  in  her  mind,  and  refused 
to  be  reconciled ;  and  a  whole  year  had  elapsed  with 
nothing  transpiring  to  mar  the  tranquillity  of  the  Sta- 
pleses.  Jenny  had  gone  again  to  Illinois,  and  little 
Mrs.  Staples  was  left  to  her  own  domestic  duties  and 
reflections. 

There  were  no  babies  in  the  home  of  the  Stapleses, 
though  they  would  have  been  most  welcome  there;  and 
there  were  times  when  a  feeling  akin  to  envy  would 
awaken  in  the  breast  of  the  little  woman,  in  her  com- 
fortable home,  as  she  thought  of  the  homes  of  the  poor, 
where  the  children  were  counted  by  pairs  and  by  sev- 
vens,  with  misery  and  want  for  an  inheritance.  To  add 
to  this  feeling,  her  husband  never  saw  a  pretty  child 
about  their  door  that  he  did  not  call  it  in  and  pet  it ; 
and  a  visit  to  their  house  by  any  one  with  a  baby,  — 
and  little  Mrs.  Staples  had  several  married  cousins,  all 
proprietors  of  fat,  chubby  babies,  with  plump  arms  and 
legs,  and  ball-buttery  cheeks,  and  putty  noses,  who  were 
delighted  to  exhibit  their  pets  on  the  pleasant  days,  — 
was  a  great  occasion,  and  the  Stapleses  were  in  their 
glory,  making  it  a  matter  of  talk  for  days  afterwards. 

Mrs.  Staples,  about  this  time,  read  the  life  of  Jose 


A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE.     161 

phme,  and  she  was  struck  very  much  with  the  resem- 
blance between  herself  and  that  excellent  personage  ; 
likewise,  the  resemblance  between  Napoleon  and  her 
husband,  though  others  might  have  waited  a  good  while 
before  they  saw.  the  likeness.  It  was  all  summed  up 
in  the  fact  that  neither  party  had  any  children.  Poor 
little  Mrs.  Staples  once  more  began  to  imagine  vain 
things  ;  again  her  husband's  occasional  absence  from 
home  looked  mysterious  ;  again  his  clothes  were 
watched  for  straggling  threads  ;  again  his  pockets 
turned  wrong  side  out  for  tell-tale  papers ;  again  she 
became  miserably  jealous  ! 

Poor  Staples  saw  the  change  in  her,  and  was  unhappy. 
With  no  direct  complaint  from  her,  he  could  say  noth- 
ing, and  each  day  he  watched  the  progress  of  the  insid- 
ious disease  that  was  preying  upon  her  peace.  One  day 
she  was  out  for  a  walk,  and  thought  she  would  call  upon 
her  husband  at  his  room  in  Court-square  ;  for  the  name 
of  Staples  was  borne  upon  a  shingle  in  that  locality,  he 
being  of  the  ancient  fraternity  of  lawyers.  Approach- 
ing his  door  through  an  ante-room,  she  was  attracted 
by  her  husband's  voice,  saying, 

"  I  love  her  as  dearly  as  ever  man  loved  woman,  and 
1  Here  his  voice  fell  to  a  murmur,  and  she  heard  no 
more  of  the  sentence  ;  but  heard  a  man's  voice  say>  as 
if  in  reply, 

"  Does  your  wife  suspect  anything  about  the  child  ?" 

Then  her  husband  replied, 

"  Not  one  word." 

She  heard  the  sound  of  a  subdued  laugh,  and  heard 
no  more ;  for  she  left  as  silently  as  she  had  entered,  in 
a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  distraction.  She  had 
fallen  by  accident  upon  a  secret  that  she  would  have 
given  the  world  not  to  have  become  the  recipient  of. 

14*  11 


162     A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE. 

She  went  through  the  streets  unheeding  anything  01 
anybody  ;  until,  Hearing  the  street  that  led  to  her  once 
happy,  but  never  more  to  be  happy,  home,  she  was 
arrested  by  the  sound  of  her  name,  pronounced  by  a 
familiar  voice,  and  her  old  neighbor,  Mrs.  Spigh,  stood 
before  her. 

"  Why,  I  declare,"  said  that  estimable  woman,  without 
any  particular  reason  for  the  declaration,  "  if  this  is  not 
Miss  Staples  !  I  Ve  been  a  great  many  times  coming  to 
see  you,  but  somehow  or  other  could  n't  make  up  my 
mind  to,  after Well,  men  are  very  curious,  Miss  Sta- 
ples. I  hope  you  are  happy.  Are  your  children  well  ? 
0,  I  remember,  you  never  had  any.  Well,  well,  some 
is  n't  blessed  in  that  way.  Rachel  mourning  for  her 
children  that  would  n't  be  comfited,  you  know,  and 
that 's  scriptur." 

Mrs.  Spigh  stopped,  and  poor  little  Mrs.  Staples  re- 
plied but  generally  to  her,  because  her  little  heart  was 
too  full  to  admit  of  her  speaking.  Mrs.  Spigh  contin- 
ued by  her  side,  like  a  disagreeable  shadow,  to  her  own 
door,  and,  as  she  entered,  the  dark  shadow  entered  with 
her. 

"  I  declare,"  said  the  shadow,  "  how  natural  it  seems 
for  me  to  be  setting  here  !  I  have  n't  been  here  since 

that  night  when  the  young  woman  —  I  mean  since 

Well,  well,  't  is  n't  best  to  remember  everything.  For- 
get and  forgive  should  be  our  motto,  though  we  have 
many  things  to  try  us." 

Little  Mrs.  Staples  fell  into  a  chair,  and,  unhearing 
.arid  uncaring  for  her  visitor,  went  to  crying  as  hard 
as  she  could,  swinging  her  body  backward  and  for- 
ward, and  wringing  her  hands  in  the  very  bitterness 
of  grief. 

Mrs.  Spigh  looked  on,  with  great  benevolence  in  her 


\ 

A   PLEASANT   STORY   FOR  JEALOUS   PEOPLE.          163 

expression,  as  much  as  if  she  were  exclaiming  to  her- 
self, "  Ah  !  poor  soul,  I  know  just  how  to  pity  you." 

"  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  "  said  she,  at 
length.  On  being  informed  that  there  was  not,  she 
Said,  in  a  croaking  tone  :  "  Well,  well,  it  is,  I  suppose, 
our  lot  to  suffer  and  obey.  Our  feelings  may  be  out- 
ridged,  but  we  must  n't  say  nothing ;  our  bosoms  may 
be  lacerated,  but  we  must  n't  say  nothing ;  our  firesides 
may  be  pervaded,  but  we  must  n't  say  nothing ;  our 
moral  sensibilities  may  be  blasphemed,  but  we  must  n't 
say  nothing.  I  suppose  it  is  ah1  right;  and  7  don't 
want  to  arrange  Providence  by  calling  it  wrong." 

She  folded  her  hands  meekly,  and  waited  for  little 
Mrs.  Staples  to  "  revulge  "  to  her  the  secret  woe  that 
bowed  her  down.  At  last  the  salt  grief  became  slightly 
acidulated  by  an  infusion  of  Spigh,  and  an  effervescence 
took  place,  bubbling  up  into  words  and  sentences. 

"  Jere  's  found  some  woman  he  loves  better  than 
me—" 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  attendant  croaker. 

"  And  he  has  got  a  child  hid  somewheres  — " 

"  Yery  probable,"  said  the  croaker. 

"  I  heard  it  this  day  from  his  own  lips.  0  !  that  I 
had  died  before  I  heard  it ! " 

The  dear  little  woman  !  How  she  sobbed  and  sobbed, 
and  swayed  backward  and  forward,  and  wrung  her 
hands  as  she  finished ;  and  how  the  shadow  fell  upoji  her, 
as  Mrs.  Spigh,  like  a  huge  raven,'  moved  here  and  there, 
croaking  of  the  falsehood  of  man,  and  exhorting  sub- 
mission to  his  tyranny,  even  though  he  indulged  in  all 
imagined  departures  from  the  virtuous  limits  to  which 
they  were  by  law  circumscribed,  as  though  it  would  be 
different  were  such  restrictions  removed  !  She  at  last 
left  her  victim  in  a  hopeful  state, — had  got  her  reduced 


164    A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE. 

to  the  calmness  of  despair, —  with  a  promise  that  she 
would  drop  in  the  next  day,  and  see  how  she  did. 

It  was  a  fearfully  long  afternoon  to  little  Mrs.  Staples, 
as  she  sat  waiting  for  the  return  of  her  perfidious  hus- 
band. So  she  called  him,  in  her  trouble.  And  there 
she  sat,  "  nursing  her  grief,"  and  thinking  how  she 
should  meet  the  man  who  had  so  wronged  her — with 
what  expression  she  should  greet  him.  She  would 
show  him  a  true  specimen  of  womanly  greatness ; 
would  reproach  him  with  his  baseness,  and  then  give 
him  up  to  the  sting  of  his  own  conscience.  How  calm 
she  would  be  !  He  should  never  suspect  the  bitterness 
that  lay  at  her  heart.  She  would  tell  him  that  she 
knew  his  secret,  and  then  forgive  him,  and  win  him 
back  by  her  generous  love.  Her  own  heart  prompted 
this.  She  would  keep  the  secret  as  an  object  of  terror 
for  him  in  years  to  come,  when  she  should  cease  to  love 
him,  to  reproach  him  withal,  and  make  his  life  miser- 
able I  How  she  would  taunt  him  about  THE  BABY,  till 
he  would  cower  before  her  glance,  and  bury  his  burn- 
ing face  in  his  hands  and  cry  for  mercy.  And  would 
she  grant  it?  —  she,  the  injured,  the  slighted,  the  con- 
temned, —  would  she  ?  How  she  patted  her  little  foot 
as  she  said  this  in  her  thoughts  ! 

In  the  midst  of  her  reflections  the  door  softly  opened, 
and,  glancing  her  eyes  upwards  from  the  carpet,  they 
met  those  of  her  husband,  beaming  on  her  with  the 
light  of  a  serene  and  sincere  affection. 

Away  with  plans  of  action  !  away  with  premeditated 
feeling !  The  heart,  if  true,  must  act  on  its  imme- 
diate impulse.  Starting  to  her  feet,  little  Mrs.  Staples 
threw  herself  into  her  husband's  arms ;  but  in  an 
instant  her  wrongs  crowded  upon  her,  and,  falling  back 
upon  the  seat  she  had  just  left,  she  swooned  away  with 


A  PLEASANT  STOEY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE.    165 

the  pressure  of  conflicting  feelings.  When  she  recov- 
ered, she  found  herself  on  the  bed,  by  the  side  of  which 
her  husband  was  tenderly  watching. 

Poor  little  Mrs.  Staples !  How  pale  she  looked ! 
Recognizing  her  watcher,  she  took  his  hand,  and  told 
him  that  she  did  not  think  she  should  live  (in  a  sweet, 
trembling  voice) ;  that  she  had,  that  day,  become  ac- 
quainted, by  accident,  with  a  momentous  secret,  and 
could  not  die  in  peace  without  imparting  it  to  him. 
She  had,  she  said,  been  near  him  when  he  had  told  his 
friend  of  his  secret  love, — as  dear  as  ever  man  bore 
for  woman,  —  and  of  the  child,  that  she  knew  was  to 
crown  his  life  with  a  joy  he  so  much  craved ;  but  she 
felt  that  she  could  give  him  up,  —  (particularly  as  she 
herself  was  so  soon  to  have  no  special  need  for  him), — 
and  begged  of  him  to  think  of  her  when  she  was  gone, 
as  one  that  he  had  once  loved,  who  would  from  the 
spheres  still  have  an  eye  over  him,  in  an  angelic  way, 
and  seek  for  his  happiness  alone.  No  jealousy  now 
tormented  the  dying  little  Mrs.  Staples,  so  white  and 
pale  there  amid  the  pillows. 

"  And  are  you  strong  enough,  my  love,"  said  he,  with 
a  grave  smile  on  his  face,  that  seemed  strange  at  such  a 
time ;  "  and  are  you  able  to  hear  the  one  named  that  I 
love  so  strongly,  of  whom  I  was  speaking  when  you 
overheard  me  telling  my  friend  Badger?  Are  you? " 

She  assured  him  she  was  able  ;  and  her  face  assumed 
a  flush  with  much  more  of  life  than  death  in  it,  as  she 
spoke.  He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  a  moment  to  his 
breast. 

"  Then  listen,"  said  he.  "  I  was  telling  my  friend  of 
a  little  jealous  and  unhappy  woman,  that  was  torment- 
ing herself  to  death  on  my  account,  at  home,  whom  I 
loved  very  dearly,  but  who  would  not  believe  it ;  and 


166    A  PLEASANT  STORY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE. 

then  I  told  him  of  a  great  scheme  of  mine  for  winning 
her  to  faith  in  me  by  a  gift,  —  the  most  strange  that 
ever  entered  the  heart  of  man  to  procure,  —  and  which 
—  (Mr.  Badger,  please  step  here  a  moment)  —  is  ready 
to  be  presented  to  you." 

He  hid  her  eyes  with  his  hands  as  the  door  opened, 
and  when  she  could  see,  the  room  was  lighted,  and  a 
woman  and  a  man  stood  by  her  bedside,  and  the  woman 
bore  something  on  her  arm,  nicely  hidden,  which,  on 
being  uncovered,  revealed  the  features  of  a  plump  and 
beautiful  babe. 

"  Here,"  said  Mr.  Badger,  "  is  a  present  that  I  was 
deputized  to  give  you.  This  is  the  mother,  who  freely 
resigns  it,  under  writing,  to  your  loving  care,  its  father 
being  dead.  Take  it,  my  dear  madam,  and  may  it  long 
live  to  bless  and  comfort  you  !  " 

"  And  my  blessing  goes  with  it,"  said  the  woman, 
tenderly  kissing  it ;  "  and  I  know  my  darling  Rose  is  in 
hands  where  no  mother's  care  will  be  missed.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear  madam;  and  if  ever  I  come  this 
way  again,  may  I  look  upon  her  sweet  face  once  more  ? 
though  I  '11  never  tell  her  who  was  her  mother,  and 
shall  cry  to  look  at  her." 

There  never  was  such  a  time  about  the  bedside  of  a 
dying  woman,  and  no  dying  woman  ever  had  interest  in 
life  more  suddenly  renewed.  Little  Mrs.  Staples  rose 
from  her  bed,  and  her  first  duty  was  to  throw  her  arms 
around  her  husband's  neck,  begging  his  forgiveness  for 
doubting  his  truth,  and  promising  him  she  never  would 
do  so  again,  like  a  school-girl.  Then  she  took  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  and  kissed  it  over  and  over  again,  and 
admired  its  fingers,  and  its  toes,  and  its  eyes,  and  its 
nose,  and  thought  there  never  was  such  a  sweet  baby 


A  PLEASANT  STOEY  FOR  JEALOUS  PEOPLE.    167 

born,  vowing  to  love  it  dearly,  and  hugged  it  in  such  a 
way  that  the  mother  was  quite  affected. 

It  was  quite  a  young  baby ;  and,  as  so  few  were  in  the 
secret,  it  was  deemed  to  be  a  matter  of  the  quietest  and 
slyest  scheming  in  the  world,  to  have  the  baby  pass  as 
a  genuine  home  production,  and  so  it  was  resolved. 
The  next  day  it  was  announced  that  Mr.  Staples  was 
the  possessor  of  a  bran-new  baby.  A  girl  was  em- 
ployed, and  the  mother  installed  as  nurse  until  such 
time  as  little  Mrs.  Staples  should  get  the  hang  of  the 
thing.  The  milkman  was  surprised  to  be  told  that  he 
must  not  make  a  noise,  because  he  would  disturb  the 
baby.  So  with  the  butcher ;  and  an  order  left  for  oat- 
meal at  the  grocer's  was  brought  over  by  the  grocer 
himself,  who  was  a  family  man,  and  did  n't  quite  believe 
the  obscure  hint  that  Staples  had  thrown  out,  about 
some  folks  having  babies  as  well  as  some  folks.  So  it 
went  on,  and  every  one  expressed  astonishment  that  no 
one  had  ever  suspected  anything  about  it,  coming  to 
the  conclusion,  however,  that  everything  was  just  as  it 
should  be,  and  they  were  glad  of  it. 
,  In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Spigh  was  surprised  to  have 
her  summons  at  the  bell  responded  to  by  a  servant-girl, 
and  was  thunderstruck,  speaking  figuratively,  to  hear 
the  reply  to  her  inquiry  for  little  Mrs.  Staples,  that  she 
was  up  stairs  with  the  baby. 

"  Whose  baby?"  said  that  sympathizing  female,  in  a 
tone  of  great  wonder. 

"  Her'n,  ma'am  ;  come  last  night,  ma'am,"  replied  the 
domestic. 

"  Poor  creatur  ! "  cried  she ;  "  more  sorror,  more 
sorror !  Well,  our  backs  are  fitted  to  our  burdens. 
Tell  her,  young  woman,  that  Mrs.  Spigh  is  here,  and 
would  like  to  sympathize  with  her." 


168  A   COURTING   REMINISCENCE. 

The  domestic  went  as  directed. 

"  A  baby  ! "  said  that  lady  to  herself.  "  I  wonder  if 
any  accident  happened ;  I  hope  it  is  n't  deformed,  or 
anything,  though  it  must  be  a  poor  unhappy  creatur' ; 
J  hope  it  won't  be  punished  for  its  father's  wickedness 
to  the  fourth  generation  — " 

Her  reflections  were  cut  short  by  the  return  of  the 
servant,  who  assured  Mrs.  Spigh  that  her  mistress  was 
grateful  for  her  sympathy,  but  that  Mr.  Staples,  who  was 
up  stairs,  thought  she  had  better  bestow  all  she  had 
somewhere  else. 

"  Ah,  that  poor  creatur' !  "  said  she,  as  she  went  out ; 
"  how  she  must  suffer  with  such  a  brute  of  a  man  !  " 

In  due  time  little  Rose  was  passed  round  for  inspec- 
tion, and  never  in  the  vounds  of  Babydom  had  such 
another  been  seen.  Some  shook  their  heads,  and  some 
remarked,  "  How  old-fashioned !  "  but  it  was  Staples' 
baby,  and  it  became  an  immense  favorite.  The  mother 
never  returned,  having  married  in  California. 

There  was  no  more  jealousy  in  the  home  of  the 
Stapleses.  The  baby  was  a  bond  of  union  between  them 
that  never  relaxed  its  power ;  and  though  it  was  but  a 
little  plant  from  another  parterre,  it  was  loved  none  the 
less. 


A    COURTING    REMINISCENCE 

MY  brow  is  seamed  o'er  with  the  iron  of  years, 

And  the  snow-threads  are  gleaming  the  dark  locks  among 
My  eyes  have  grown  dim  in  the  shadow  of  tears, 

And  the  flowers  of  my  soul  have  died  as  they  sprung ; 
But  Memory  bears  to  me  on  its  broad  wings 

Bright  images  true  of  my  earliest  life, 
And  there,  'mid  the  fairest  of  all  that  she  brings, 

Is  the  little  low  room  whore  I  courted  my  wife. 


A   COURTING   REMINISCENCE.  169 

That  low  humble  room  seemed  a  palace  of  light, 

As  Love  held  his  torch  and  illumined  the  scene, 
With  glory  of  state  and  profusion  bedight, 

Where  I  was  a  monarch  —  my  darling  a  queen  ; 
Ourselves  were  our  subjects,  pledged  loyal  to  each, 

And  which  should  love  best  was  our  heartiest  strife ; 
What  tales  could  it  tell,  if  possessing  a  speech, 

That  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife  ! 

Warm  vows  has  it  heard  —  the  warmest  e'er  spoke  — 

Where  lips  have  met  lips  in  holy  embrace, 
Where  feelings  that  never  to  utterance  woke 

It  saw  oft  revealed  in  a  duplicate  face  ! 
The  sweet  hours  hastened  —  how  quickly  they  flew  I  — - 

With  fervor,  devotion,  and  ecstasy  rife  ; 
Our  hearts  throbbed  the  hours  —  but  how  I  ne'er  knew  — • 

In  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 

The  romance  of  youth  lent  its  rapturous  zest, 

And  fairy-land  knew  no  delight  like  our  own  ; 
Our  words  were  but  few,  yet  they  were  the  best,  — 

A  dialect  sweet  for  ourselves  all  alone  ; 
So  anxious  to  hear  what  the  other  might  say, 

We  scarcely  could  utter  a  word,  for  our  life  ; 
Thus  the  hours  unheeded  passed  fleetly  away 

In  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 

Long  years  have  since  passed  o'er  my  darling  and  me, 

And  the  roses  have  faded  away  from  her  cheek, 
But  the  merciless  seasons,  as  onward  they  flee, 

Leave  love  still  undimmed  in  her  bosom  so  meek ; 
That  love  is  the  light  to  my  faltering  feet, 

My  comfort  in  moments  with  sorrowing  rife, 
My  blessing  in  joy,  as  with  joy  't  was  replete 

In  the  little  low  room  where  I  courted  my  wife. 
15 


170  FIDGETY  PEOPLE. 

FIDGETY    PEOPLE 

THERE  is  a  large  class  of  people  who,  like  electrical 
eels,  are  always  on  the  jump ;  who  seem  so  charged 
with  electricity  that  it  appears  but  necessary  to  apply 
the  knuckle  to  one  of  their  elbows  to  elicit  a  shock. 
Indeed,  it  has  been  proved,  in  the  experience  of  many, 
especially  where  the  battery  was  a  female,  that  the 
shock  has  instantly  followed  the  touch,  either  in  the 
form  of  a  concussion  on  the  ribs,  or  a  sensation  upon 
the  cheek,  attended  with  sparks  from  the  eyes.  As  a 
class,  fidgety  people,  enjoying  no  peace  themselves,  are 
unwilling  others  should  experience  any,  and,  through 
teasing  and  fretfulness,  see  their  most  fidgety  disposi- 
tion gratified.  A  noisy  foot  upon  a  stair,  a  voice  not 
tuned  to  the  fidgety  pitch,  a  dress  a  thousandth  part  of 
an  inch  awry,  a  stray  hair  escaped  from  its  fastening, 
and  ten  thousand  other  things  equally  trivial,  will  excite 
the  battery,  and  fidgets  will  ensue,  revealing  themselves 
in  many  unhappy  explosions  of  temper.  The  fidgety 
are  not  confined  to  the  female  part  of  humanity  ;  —  the 
masculine  has  its  share.  This  need  not  be  told,  as  go 
many  instances  are  to  be  seen.  We  knew  a  man  change 
his  place  of  worship  from  an  Orthodox  to  a  Unitarian 
church,  because  there  was  an  angle  in  the  wall  that  waa 
not  true,  —  the  fidgets  coming  upon  him  every  time  he 
looked  at  it,  and  he  could  not  enjoy  the  sermons  ;  and 
another,  too  conscientious  to  change,  who  kept  at  home 
altogether,  because  the  minister  tied  his  neckerchief  in 
a  granny-knot.  Some  cannot  remain  still  a  moment, 
but  spend  their  lives  in  very  busily  doing  nothing,  or 
undoing  what  they  have  done,  like  poor  little  Luke 
West,  in  his  transposition  of  chairs  upon  the  stage. 
They  are  always  changing  pictures,  or  clearing  up  or 


THE  PHILISTINES   BE  UPON  THEE.  171 

moving  round ;  coming  out,  in  the  end,  just  about  where 
they  started  from.  This  class  are  unhappy  to  see  a  hat 
hung  on  a  wrong  peg,  a  scrap  of  paper  as  big  as  a  pea 
on  the  floor,  or  a  door  ajar ;  and  fret  in  most  miserable 
discontent,  exciting  the  same  feelings  in  others,  be- 
cause they  are  not  understood.  It  takes  everybody 
to  make  a  world ;  and  this  doctrine  we  are  growing 
more  and  more  to  believe,  every  day.  Fidgety  people 
are,  doubtless,  designed,  if  regarded  rightly,  to  quicken 
the  torpidity  of  negative  people,  who  otherwise  might 
simply  vegetate.  They  are  vitalizers,  and  should  not 
only  be  tolerated,  but  welcomed ;  and,  instead  of  being 
unhappy  in  contact  with  them,  we  should  note  the  effect 
of  their  fidgeting  as  we  would  the  effect  of  a  galvanic 
battery,  and  cry,  admiringly,  "  What  a  nice  shock  that 
was  ! "  and  feel,  in  our  quickened  blood,  instead  of 
anger,  that  it  had  done  us  good. 


THE    PHILISTINES  BE   UPON    THEE. 

WHILE  bound  by  Pleasure's  flowery  chains, 

Our  souls  in  guilty  dalliance  lie, 
Listing  the  enervating  strains 

On  wanton  winds  that  wander  by ; 
Weakened  by  dull,  luxurious  ease, 

Temptation  finds  us  easy  prey, 
And,  some  Delilah  sin  to  please, 

We  drive  our  better  selves  away 

'Tis  then  that  Conscience,  in  our  need, 

Cries  out,  in  accents  loud  and  clear, 
The  foe  is  on  thee — arm  with  speed  !  — 

And  well  if  we  its  warning  hear. 
The  dormant  soul  shakes  off  ite  chains, 

And,  once  more  disenthralled  and  free, 
Over  luxurious  Sin  obtains, 

By  Virtue's  might,  the  mastery. 


172  MRS.   PARTINGTON  AND   THE  TELEGRAPH. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON    ON   INTEMPERANCE. 

•{  INTEMPERANCE  ! "  said  Mrs.  Partington,  solemnly,  with 
a  rich  emotion  in  her  tone,  like  an  after-dinner  speech 
at  the  same  time  bringing  her  hand,  containing  the 
snuff  she  had  just  brought  from  the  box,  down  upon 
her  knee,  while  Lion,  with  a  violent  sneeze,  walked 
away  to  another  part  of  the  room, — "  Intemperance  is  a 
monster  with  a  good  many  heads,  and  creeps  into  the 
bosoms  of  families  like  any  conda  or  an  allegator,  and 
destroys  its  peace  and  happiness  forever.  But,  thank 
Heaven !  a  new  Erie  has  'dawned  on  the  world,  and 
soon  the  hydrant-headed  monster  will  be  overturned. 
Is  n't  it  strange  that  men  will  put  enemies  into  their 
mouths  to  steal  away  their  heads?"  —  "Don't  you  re- 
gard taking  snuff  a  vice?"  one  asked,  innocently. —  "If 
it  is,"  she  replied,  with  the  same  old  argument,  "  it  is  so 
small  a  one  that  Providence  won't  take  no  notice  of  it ; 
and,  besides,  my  oil-factories  would  miss  it  so."  Ah  J 
kind  old  heart,  the  drunkard's  argument !  He  who 
casts  stones  at  his  frail  brother  must  first  see  if  there 
be  not  something  at  home  to  correct,  before  he  pre- 
sumes upon  his  own  infallibility.  Ike  all  the  while  was 
watching  Lion,  as  he  lay  growling  in  his  sleep,  and 
wondering  if  he  was  dreaming  about  him. 


MRS.   PARTINGTON    AND    THE   TELEGRAPH 

"  THE  line  is  down  !  "  shouted  Ike,  as  he  swung  open 
the  front-door.  Mrs.  Partington,  thinking  he  meant  the 
clothes-line  in  the  back-yard,  darted  to  the  window,  but 
everything  was  right.  The  night-caps  swung  to  and  fro 
by  their  strings,  the  dresses  waved  their  long  arms  in 
the  winds,  and  Ike's  galligaskins,  inflated  by  the  breeze, 
seemed  struggling  to  be  free.  — "  You  should  not  tell 


GREAT  AND  LITTLE  STRUGGLES.  173 

such  wrong  stories,  dear,"  said  she,  "  when  there  is  no 
occasion  for  it.  The  line  is  not  down."  —  "I  meant  the 
Atlantic  Telegraph  line,"  said  he,  with  a  face  expressive 
of  the  joy  of  both  hemispheres  ;  "  and  Queen  Victoria 
is  going  to  send  it  to  President  Buchanan."  —  "  She  is, 
is  she  ?  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  Well,  that  is  very  kind  in 
her.  I  wonder  if  she  will  prepay  the  postage  before- 
hand in  advance." — "  It  is  n't  a  letter,"  cried  he  ;  "  it  is 
a  cable  under  the  water  from  one  country  to  the  other, 
over  which  messages  can  be  sent." — "  I  don't  believe  it 
can  be  done,"  said  she;  "  for  how  can  the  messages  come 
without  getting  satiated  with  water?" — "I  guess  they'll 
be  wrapped  up  in  gutta-percha,"  replied  Ike. — "  Maybe 
so,"  said  the  dame,  thoughtfully,  "maybe  so,  but  it  would 
be  a  good  deal  safer  to  send  'em  by  the  steamer ;  for 
what  if  they  should  get  stuck  half-way?"  She  pon- 
dered on  it,  and  did  not  see  that  Ike  had  tied  her  ball  of 
yarn  to  the  tongue  of  the  bell,  and  was  even  then  in  a 
remote  position,  preparing  to  send  messages  of  mischief, 
that  would  call  her  repeatedly  to  the  door. 


GREAT  AND   LITTLE    STRUGGLES. 

WE  speak  of  struggles  in  the  field  of  life, 

Where  men  and  women  make  a  rush  to  win, 
And  in  the  bigger  ones  who  urge  the  strife 

We  overlook  the  lesser  that  "  go  in." 
The  gallant  Havelock  on  the  Eastern  field, 

Or  Halley  tracking  comets  through  the  sky, 
Or  Morse,  whose  fame  in  lightning  lines  is  sealed, 

Or  Webster,  whose  great  name  can  never  die, — 
These  claim  our  homage  ;  but  those  are  as  great 

Who  in  a  smaller  way  embark  their  soul, 
Who  wrestle  with  the  purposes  of  Fate, 

Td  sink,  perhaps,  or  triumph  in  the  whole. 
A  mighty  instance  now  occurs  to  me — 
A  small  boy  wrestling  with  his  A,  B,  C. 
15* 


174  DIED   OP   CRAMP. 


DIED    OF    CRAMP. 

IT  is  a  fearful  thing  to  be  stricken  down,  alone  and 
unattended,  when  our  last  hour  comes  —  without  a  sigh 
from  loving  lips  to  prove  that  we  will  be  regretted 
when  we  are  gone,  and  to  assure  us  that  our  life  has 
not  been  spent  in  vain,  when  tender  ones  can  breathe  a 
blessing  on  our  exit.  This  truth  found  poor  Peasly,  in 
the  cholera-time,  moving  one  evening  towards  home, 
pondering  upon  the  chances  of  his  being  called  away  in 
the  midst  of  his  usefulness,  his  young  wife  a  widow, 
with  good  prospect  of  being  married  again  before  he 
had  been  dead  six  months.  The  night  was  dark,  and 
his  mind  was  as  dark  as  the  night  was,  as  he  moved 
along,  turning  these  things  over  in  deep  reflection,  and 
wondering  if  lobster-salad  was  wholesome  in  cholera- 
time  ;  for  he  had  just  partaken  of  a  dish  of  that  delicious 
preparation,  and  was  conscious  of  an  uneasiness  in  the 
epigastric  region.  He  had  .taken  the  precaution  ad- 
vised by  the  "  Baron,"  to  "  soften  the  hostility  "  of  the 
salad  by  a  sufficiency  of  Sauterne,  or  some  other  fluid, 
and  was  surprised  that  it  affected  him  so.  He  felt 
uneasy  in  his  mind  about  it.  But  he  remembered  the 
tales  he  had  heard  where  cheerfulness  was  a  repel- 
lant  of  cholera  influences,  and  of  the  effects  of  dismal 
thoughts  inducing  the  dreaded  disease,  and  he  attempted 
to  whistle  a  cheerful  tune.  It  was  a  failure.  His  whistle 
sounded  more  like  that  heard  in  winter  at  some  cranny 
_in  an  old  barn,  at  night,  when  the  witches  are  about, 
and  children  hide  their  heads  under  the  bed-clothes  for 
fear ! 

Going  through  Union-street  towards  the  North  End, 
where  he  resided,  he  met  one  of  his  old  friends. 

"  Lots  of  cholera  down  your  way,  eh,  Peasly  ?  "  said 


DIED   OF  CEAMP.  175 

the  friend.     "The  Mayor's  been  a  overhauling  Spear 
Place,  and  found  it  brirn  full." 

He  looked  at  Peasly  by  the  gas-light,  and  saw  that  he 
was  pale  and  unhappy. 
.  "  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  I  don't  feel  exactly  right,"  said  he  ;  "I  —  I  guess  it 
is  n't  much,  though.  I  've  been  eating  lobster-salad." 

"  Bad  stuff  in  cholera-times,"  said  the  friend.  "  You 
know  old  Timberly,  up  by  Fort  Hill  ? —  well,  he  eat  two 
lobster-claws,  day  before  yesterday  about  noon,  and 
next  morning  he  was  dead  as  General  Jackson.  Good- 
night." 

And  the  friend  was  off. 

Peasly  felt  worse ;  and,  whistle  as  he  might,  —  and  he 
attempted  another  tune,  —  the  pain  Increased,  as  he  did 
his  pace. 

"  Ah,  Peasly,  my  boy,  how  are  ye  ?  "  said  Styles,  the 
policeman,  as  he  saw  him  scudding  along,  with  his  hand 
upon  his  waistcoat. 

"  Pretty  well,"  replied  Peasly,  with  an  effort. 

"  Glad  of  it,"  said  Styles,  "  glad  of  it.  Great  times, 
these.  Cholera's  all  round  your  neighborhood.  Seven 
carted  away  this  afternoon." 

"  Anybody  that  I  know  ?  "  gasped  Peasly. 

•"  Why,  there  's  the  Widow  Spruce,  and  Jo  Bart,  and 
Uncle  Frye,  and  the  rest  I  did  n't  know.  Don't  you 
think  that  Frye  was  fool  enough  to  gorge  himself  with 
lobster-salad,  and  then  wash  it  down  with  brandy.  Con- 
founded fool,  was  n't  he?" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  poor  Peasly,  taking  hold  of  his 
waistcoat  with  redoubled  force ;  "  but  is  it  generally  so 
bad  ?  " 

"  Bad  !  "  said  Styles,  looking  earnestly  into  Peasly's 
eyes,  arid,  seeing  the  sweat  standing  in  globules  upon 


176  DIED   OF  CRAMP. 

his  face,  and  his  lips  as  white  as  ashes,  determining  to 
guy  him ;  "  bad  !  you  have  n't  seen  the  proclamation 
about  lobsters,  made  on  the  recommendation  of  Doctor 
Smith,  to  have  every  one  thrown  into  the  dock,  and 
the  men  prosecuted  for  selling  of  'em?  'Twas  sent 
down  to  the  watch-house  to-night.  Smith  says  they  're 
rank  pisen,  —  red  cholerys,  every  one  of  'em." 

How  the  pain  took  hold  of  Peasly,  as  the  policeman 
moved  on  I  Down  the  street  a  crowd  of  people  at- 
tracted his  attention,  and  for  a  moment  he  stopped  to 
ascertain  the  cause. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Peasly  of  a  bystander. 

"  It 's  a  feller  that  was  picked  up  on  the  wharf,  sir," 
was  the  reply.  "  Guess  he 's  got  the  cholery ;  been 
eating  lobster." 

Mr.  Peasly  ran  from  the  scene  towards  his  home,  and 
never  had  that  spot  appeared  so  sacred  to  his  fancy  as 
at  that  particular  juncture.  He  had  got  within  a  few 
doors  of  his  haven,  when  he  met  a  man  coming  down 
the  street  with  a  lobster  under  each  arm,  from  which  he 
was  breaking  the  claws  and  sucking  them. 

"  He 's  a  goner,"  said  Peasly  to  himself,  as  an  extra 
pain  made  him  almost  cry  out  with  its  acuteness ;  "  and 
I  'm  afraid  that  I  am." 

Mr.  Peasly  reached  his  door,  a  wretched  man ;  but  he 
was  at  home.  Here  he  could  find  consolation  and  pep- 
permint-tea. Here  he  could  have  the  hand  of  sympathy 
held  out  to  soothe  his  brow,  or  to  drop  laudanum  for 
his  infirmity.  With  a  strong  hand  he  pulled  the  door- 
bell, when,  overcome,  he  sank  upon  the  door-step.  No 
one  came  at  the  summons,  and,  rising  up,  he  gave 
another  pull,  and  sat  down  again. 

A  window  in  the  next  house  opened,  and  a  female 
voice  was  heard  telling  Mr.  Peasly  of  the  fact  that  his 


DIED   OP   CRAMP.  177 

wife  had  gone  to  a  religious  meeting  in  the  Bethel,  and 
would  n't  be  back  till  ten  o'clock,  and  it  was  now  but 
half-past  eight.  Wretched  Peasly  !  An  hour  and  a 
half  betwixt  him  and  peppermint-tea,  and  he  dying  of 
cholera !  The  reflection  broke  the  back  of  the  little 
resolution  he  had  left. 

He  fancied  to  himself  the  trouble  that  would  arise  in 
finding  out  how  he  had  died,  —  for  he  knew  he  was 
dying, —  and,  taking  a  piece  of  chalk  from  his  pocket,  he 
wrote  on  the  door,  in  legible  characters,  "  Died  of 
Cramp"  and  became  insensible. 

His  wife  arrived  home  sooner  than  she  anticipated, 
and  found  him  still  lying  there.  One  of  the  brethren 
who  came  home  with  her  helped  get  him  into  the  house, 
where  he  was  plied  with  proper  applications,  but  was 
not  fully  restored  till  the  next  day,  when  he  found  his 
pain  all  gone,  and  a  wonderful  appetite  possessing  him. 

"  What  have  you  got  in  the  house  to  eat,  wife  ?  "  said 
he,  putting  his  right  foot  out  of  bed ;  "  I  think  I  could 
eat  a  little  something  —  something  that 's  delicate,  you 
know." 

"  I  have,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  something  that  will 
please  you.  I  have  bought  a  nice  large  lobster,  and 
am  going  to  make  a  lobster-salad  for  you." 

Poor  Peasly  !  He  fell  back  upon  the  bed  and  re- 
lapsed again  into  forgetfulness.  It  was  three  weeks 
before  he  recovered,  and  all  the  time  he  was  sick 
people  marvelled  at  the  strange  inscription  upon  his 
door,  "Died  of  Cramp"  It  was  only  owing  to  a  strong 
constitution  and  proper  appliances  that  it  was  not 
true. 

Peasly,  to  this  day,  has  n't  the  courage  to  look  at  a 
lobster.  His  sensibility  is  so  acute  that  he  can  'smell 
lobsters  three  squares  off,  and  thus  is  enabled  to  avoid 

12 


178  COSMETICS. 

them.  He  refused  a  sergeant's  warrant  in  the  Boston 
Fusileers  because  they  wore  red  coats,  and  the  mention 
of  lobster  gives  him  the  horrors  for  days  thereafter. 


COSMETICS. 

"  THAT  's  a  new  article  for  beautifying  the  complex- 
ion," said  Mr.  Bib,  holding  up  a  small  bottle  for  Mrs. 
Partington  to  look  at.  She  looked  up  from  toeing  out 
a  woollen  sock  for  Ike,  and  took  the  bottle  in  her  hand. 
—  "Is  it,  indeed?"  said  she;  "  well,  they  may  get  up 
ever  so  many  of  these  rostrums  for  beautifying  the 
complexion,  but,  depend  upon  it,  the  less  people  have 
to  do  with  bottles  for  it  the  better.  My  neighbor,  Mrs. 
Blotch,  has  been  using  a  bottle  a  good  many  years  for 
her  complexion,  and  her  nose  looks  like  a  rupture  of 
Mount  Vociferous,  with  the  burning  lather  running  all 
over  the  contagious  territory.  You  'd  better  not  try 
the  bottle  as  a  beautih'er,  Mr.  Bib."  Mr.  Bib,  with  a 
smile,  informed  her  that  this  was  simply  a  cosmetic, 
harmless  in  its  character,  and  intended  to  go  upon 
the  face,  and  not  inside  it ;  whereupon  she  subsided 
into  the  toe  of  Ike's  stocking,  murmuring  something 
about  "  leaking  in."  Ike,  in  the  mean  while,  was 
amusing  himself  by  rigging  a  martingale  on  Lion's  tail, 
securing  that  waggish  member  to  his  collar,  and  making 
him  look  as  if  he  was  scudding  before  the  wind. 


A  TALE  WITH  A  MORAL.  179 


A   TALE    WITH   A    MORAL, 

IN  Thessaly,  off  in  the  ages  dim, 
Apuleius  the  author,  queer  in  his  whim, 
Went  to  board  with  a  female  grim, 

A  sort  of  a  witch, 

Considered  as  sich, 
Who  in  Tophet's  necromancy  was  rich. 

Now,  she  had  the  power 

To  change  in  an  hour 
A  man  to  a  bird,  or  a  beast,  or  a  flower; 

And  Apuleius  he 

Took  the  wild  idee 
That  he  a  beautiful  birdling  would  be !  — 

He  would  sail  through  ether 

As  light  as  a  feather, 

And  sing  'mid  the  trees  in  summer  weather, 
And  the  finest  fruits  and  flowers  would  gather !  — 
0  !  how  he  'd  revel  in  exquisite  things, 
And  the  dew  of  the  morning  should  shine  on  his  wings  • 
He  'd  be  richer  than  Jews,  and  prouder  than  kings  ! 

This  mighty  change, 

That  was  deemed  so  strange, 
Was  wrought  by  ointments'  subtle  force, 

And,  rightly  applied 

To  his  outer  side, 

A  man  became  bird,  flower,  or  horse, 
Or  anything  else  that  his  fancy  chose, 
To  sport  in  feathers,  or  hair,  or  clothes  • 

But  this  one  care 

They  in  mind  must  bear, 
Who  used  these  wondrous  ointments  rare,  — 

To  mind  from  which  pot 

The  salve  they  got, 

And  well  it  was  that  they  should  beware  ; 
For  each  was  applied  to  a  different  use, 
And  a  change  might  play  the  particular  deuce, 

Transforming  one, 

As  sure  as  a  gun, 

From  a  would-be  dove,  perhaps,  to  a  goose  i 
Apuleius  the  author  would  be  a  bird, 
But  how  to  procure  the  witch's  charm? 


180  A  TALE  WITH  A   MORAL. 

A  lucky  thought  his  cranium  stirred  — 

He  'd  tickle  her  servant's  itching  palm ; 
A  proof  that  wielders  of  the  pen 
Were  somewhat  flush  with  "  the  ready  "  then. 
So  the  servant  was  sought, 
And  her  services  bought, 

And  the  magical  charm  was  straightway  brought, 
For  the  servant  in  such  exploits  was  adept, 
And  prigged  the  salve  while  her  mistress  slept ; 
Concerning  which,  we,  in  our  brighter  light, 
Should  say  it  was  n't  salving  her  right ! 
Apuleius  happy  now  was  made, 
And  scarcely  a  single  moment  delayed, 
And  his  heart  beat  high 
As  the  hour  drew  nigh 
To  open  to  him  the  doors  of  the  sky, 
When  he  'd  spread  his  wings  and  thitherward  fly. 
So  elated  his  thought, 
He  the  caution  forgot, 
And  did  n't  even  look  at  the  pot ; 
Till  too  soon,  alas  !  the  unfortunate  el* 
Discovered  he  'd  made  an  ass  of  himself ! 
Not  much  of  a  wonder,  some  might  say, 
When  such  things  happen  now  every  day 
The  witch  discovered  the  theft,  and,  alack  • 
She  "  played  the  deuce  and  turned  up  Jack,"  — 
She  straightway  decreed 
That  he  ne'er  should  be  freed 
Till  he  found  some  rose-leaves  on  which  to  feed 
And  a  sad  decree 
It  was  for  he, 

For  there  were  n't  any  roses  in  Thessaly, 
And  therefore  the  ridiculous  ass 
Was  brought  to  a  very  unfortunate  pass. 
From  land  to  land,  and  from  clime  to  clime 
He  wandered  on  for  a  weary  time, 
Braying  —  but  whether  in  prose  or  rhyme, 

Is  not  by  the  history  stated ; — 
And  instead  of  flying  in  upper  air, 
He  cropped  the  thistles  here  and  there, 
Seeking  for  roses  everywhere, 

But  was  long  uncompensated. 


ELECTRO-CHEMICAL   BATHS.  181 

At  last  Apuleius,  the  long-eared,  found 
A  rose-tree  on  his  sorrowing  round, 
And,  blessed  release  !  all  right  and  sound, 
He  stood  erect  once  more  on  the  ground, 
A  happy  fellow,  we  may  be  bound,  - 

And  from  it  we  draw  this  moral . 
We  should  always  be  content  with  our  lot, 
Nor  wish  to  be  birds  and  things  we  are  not, 

And  never  with  Fortune  quarrel, 
Lest  we  prove  ourselves  to  be  asses,  at  best, 
By  action  more  than  by  ears  confest, 
Braying  along,  .nor  knowing  rest, 
And  seeking  rose-leaves  east  and  west, 

To  find  but  thistles  and  sorrel. 


ELECTRO-CHEMICAL    BATHS. 

"  THIS  is  a  great  discovery,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs. 
Partington,  with  animation ;  "  when  a  person  who  has 
experienced  salvation,  through  calumny  and  all  sorts  of 
pisenous  grediences,  can  have  it  soaked  out  of  'em." 
We  asked  what  she  meant,  and  looked  at  her  as  she  sat 
in  meditation  and  the  little  low  chair  in  the  corner,  re- 
volving the  idea,  which  pressed  upon  her  brain  like  a 
weight  of  steam  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  to  the 
square  inch.  "  Why,"  said  she,  smiling  like  the  moon 
with  reflection,  "  there  is  a  contrivance  for  soaking  a 
man  who  has  taken  calumny  and  minerals  all  his  life- 
time, till  his  joints  are  stiff  as  wooden  legs  in  the  last 
war ;  and  when  he  comes  out  of  the  bath,  and  wipes 
himself  with  a  hacmetac  towl,  he  hasn't  a  single  mineral 
in  him,  —  he  is  a  perfect  vegetable,  as  limber  as  an 
eel ! "  What  a  gratified  look  it  was  she  gave,  as  an 
imaginary  procession  of  cripples,  the  victims  of  calomel, 
passed  before  her  mind's  eye,  like  the  spirits  of  Kos- 
euth's  countrymen,  as  she  thought  of  their  leaping,  all 
16 


182  TRUE   COURAGE. 

cured,  from  the  bath !  though  she  shut  her  oyes  just 
then,  and  Ike  stole  away  during  her  abstraction,  and 
was  seen  a  moment  after  peeping  round  the  corner  at 
the  ancient  priestess  of  Pomona,  who  sells  apples  op- 
posite, thinking  what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  if  a  cart 
should  come  down  and  capsize  her  table. 


TRUE    COURAGE. 

"  SOME  men  are  more  courageous  than  others,  and 
some  an't,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  as  the  conversation 
turned  upon  heroic  deeds.  She  was  the  widow  of  a 
corporal  of  the  "  last  war,"  and  her  estimate  of  heroic 
deeds,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  based  upon  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  what  those  deeds  were.  "  Some  will  go 
to  the  Chimera  to  exercise  feats  of  arms,  and  some  will 
exercise  their  feats  of  legs  by  coming  away.  It  needs 
more  courage  to  face  danger  in  the  dark  —  to  be  waked 
up  in  the  night  by  the  howling  salvages,  with  their  tom- 
myhawks  and  scalpel-knives,  or  to  hear  midnight  buglars 
breaking  into  your  house,  or,  like  the  lady  who  waked 
up  in  the  night  and  found  a  big  nigger  man  standing 
right  horizontally  by  the  side  of  her  bed.  It  takes 
great,  great  courage  to  meet  such  things,  depend  upon 
it."  The  blood  mantled  to  her  cheek,  like  the  hue  of  a 
damask  rose-bush  in  bloom  on  the  side  of  a  yellow- 
painted  house ;  heroism  sat  behind  her  spectacle-bows, 
and  peeped  out  of  the  glasses ;  while  Ike  was  engaged 
in  putting  a  clean  paper  dicky  and  a  black  cravat  upon 
a  "  marble  bust  of  Pallas,"  just  forninst  our  closetrdoor, 
—  only  this,  and  nothing  more. 


MY   GRANDMOTHER.  183 

MY    GRANDMOTHER. 

XHAT  old  chair,  painted  black,  with  the  new  bottom 
of  some  sort  of  mysterious  cloth,  provided  by  the  up- 
dolsterer,  was  the  property  of  my  grandmother, — 

"  Dear  old  lady,  she  is  dead 
Long  ago,"  — 

a  gift  from  her  mother,  when  she  was  married.  It  is  a 
queer  old  straight-backed  affair,  and  I  remember  it,  all  my 
lifetime,  as  the  "  Easy-Chair,"  though  a  more  positive 
misnomer  never  could  have  been  applied.  It  was  any- 
thing but  easy,  was  the  old  chair ;  but  when  any  of  the 
family  were  sick,  they  were  placed  in  the  "  easy-chair," 
that  always  sat  beside  the  bed  in  the  best  room,  and 
made  themselves  comfortable,  or  imagined  themselves 
so,  by  the  appliance  of  pillows,  propped  bolt  upright  as 
a  soldier  on  parade. 

That  "  best  room  "  —  and  poor  was  the  best  —  comes 
back  to  me  in  memory,  redolent  with  odor  of  pine- 
boughs,  gathered  in  the  woods  around  Fox  Hill,  or  the 
denser  shades  of  Chase's  Pasture.  The  little  low  fire- 
place was  filled  with  such,  while  upon  the  mantel  above 
it  sported  dried  bouquets  of  wild  field-flowers  and 
grasses,  that  were  in  keeping  with  the  simplicity  of  a 
sanded  floor,  scoured  to  half  its  original  thickness  by 
the  hard  rubs  of  time,  and  revealing  numerous  knots 
that  lay  about  like  hassocks  in  a  meadow,  that  could  not 
be  scoured  down.  There  were  upon  the  wall  some 
striking  profiles  —  ancestral  effigies  —  in  fly-stained 
frames,  once  beaming  with  the  bravery  of  unsullied  gold- 
leaf.  These  profiles,  cut  from  lily-white  paper,  behind 
which  was  placed  a  black  back-ground,  presented  the 
tout  ensemble  of  the  family,  though  why  more  than  one 


184  MY   GRANDMOTHER. 

was  necessary  to  emblemize  the  whole,  I  never  could 
think ;  for  they  were  all  alike,  and  all  looked  "  down 
the  corridor  of  Time,"  with  their  peaked  noses  ever 
pointing  pertinaciously  in  one  direction.  Then  there 
was  the  black  old  desk  in  the  corner,  with  its  brazen 
and  glaring  impudence  of  finish,  thrust  out  ostenta- 
tiously, as  if  conscious  of  aristocratic  importance,  as 
though  saying,  "  I  am  the  chief  article  of  furniture  in 
this  establishment !  "  I  never  see  it,  at  this  day,  with- 
out thinking  of  some  portly  gentleman  standing  with 
his  thumbs  in  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest,  at  a  meeting  of 
second-mortgage  bond-holders  of  the  Vermont  Central 
Railroad ;  but  I  can't,  for  the  life  of  me,  explain  the 
points  of  resemblance.  Then  there  were  in  the  desk 
mysterious  apartments,  from  which  the  ends  of  anti- 
quated papers  protruded ;  and  once  I  remember  seeing 
distinctly  a  silver  dollar  in  an  old  pocket-book  in  the 
desk,  which  book  I  have  now,  but  the  dollar  is  not. 
There  was  an  ancient  gun  that  hung  over  the  desk,  with 
which  I  used  to  shoot  rats,  using  gravel-stones  for  shot ; 
and  another  gun  behind  the  door,  with  which  my 
brother  used  to  shoot  teal,  in  the  mill-pond  which 
flowed  past  the  plantation  where  the  house  stood  in 
which  I  first  knew,  and  first  learned  to  love,  my  grand- 
mother. The  house  was  a  little,  dingy,  low  structure, 
which  seemed  then  large  enough,  but  which  now  ap- 
pears so  small  that  the  wonder  arises  how  a  huge  six- 
footer,  like  the  writer,  could  ever  have  managed  to  be 
born  there  ;  and  it  takes  very  materially  from  his  self- 
esteem  to  admit  that  he  couldn't  very  well  help  it. 
But  he  has  reason  to  thank  God  that  he  was  born  ;  for 
he  has  had  many  a  happy  time  since,  and  much  misery, 
which  last  he  is  equally  thankful  for,  as  it  has  made  him, 
he  knows,  through  suffering,  a  better  man. 


MY  GRANDMOTHER.  185 

The  first  face  which  he  distinctly  remembers  among 
the  early  home-scenes  was  one  old  with  years,  but  radi- 
ant with  cheerfulness  and  love.  This  never  changed. 
The  same  kind  look,  and  the  same  kind  manner,  marked 
it.  By  the  sick  bed  or  in  the  social  circle,  at  home  or 
abroad,  that  face,  like  the  sun,  bore  comfort  and  joy  in 
its  beams.  She  had  been  very  handsome  in  her  youth, 
so  everybody  said ;  but  I  saw  that  she  was  then  beauti- 
ful. The  old  face  had  no  trace  of  age  upon  it  to  me. 
The  smile  that  marked  it  was  always  young,  and  it  went 
to  every  young  heart  l;ke  a  sunbeam.  I  cannot  sit  in 
the  ancient  arm-chair,  nor  look  at  the  grim  profiles,  with- 
out thinking  of  her,  and  recalling  the  good  old  face  sur- 
rounded by  a  cap-border  of  ample  frills,  rendering  it  an 
island  of  benevolence,  surrounded  by  an  ocean  of  spot- 
less purity,  reminding  one  of  a  sunny  isle  in  some  sum- 
mer sea. 

It  is  the  lot  of  almost  everybody  to  have  grand- 
mothers ;  but  it  is  not  always  the  custom,  I  believe,  for 
everybody  to  remember  them.  I  had  two,  and  always 
thought  I  had  the  advantage  of  other  boys  in  this  par- 
ticular, until  I  became  aware  that  Providence  had 
planned  it  so  that  to  each  was  allotted  the  same  num- 
ber, as  each  state  is  entitled  to  two  senators,  to  operate 
as  a  "  check  upon  the  House."  Although  I  had  this 
number,  and  my  respect  for  both  was  equally  divided, 
still  I  loved  "  my  grandmother  "  the  best ;  and  the  love 
which  then  glowed  warm  in  my  youthful  breast,  even 
now,  when  the  sod  has  lain  upon  her  gentle  form  for 
thirty  years,  and  the  silver  threads  are  gleaming  among 
the  dark  locks  about  my  brow,  is  stronger  and  purer  than 
at  the  beginning.  The  elements  of  gentleness,  and 
kindness,  and  sweet  household  piety,  were  so  mixed  in 
her  that  her  life  was  angelic.  There  was  no  querulous 
16* 


186  MY   GRANDMOTHER. 

complaining,  no  Rigglestyish  jealousy  about  inattention, 
no  ascetic  dogmatism,  too  much  assumed  by  the  aged, 
no  exaction,  about  my  grandmother.  Her  life  flowed 
on,  like  a  river  through  meadow  land,  eighty  years  long; 
and  as  it  deepened  towards  its  close,  when  about  join- 
ing the  great  sea  of  eternity,  it  was  more  quiet  and 
gentle,  and  made  the  little  green  things  around  it,  my 
self  included,  better  by  its  unconscious  influence 
There  was  no  gossiping  about  my  grandmother.  No 
neighborhoods  were  scandalized  by  brawls  enkindled 
or  encouraged  by  her  tongue.  ,  Her  counsel  was  ever 
on  the  side  of  peace.  She  always  had  a  good  word  for 
the  erring,  and  the  largest  charity  for  the  fallen.  No 
bitter  denunciation  of  guilt  passed  her  lips.  "  We  are 
born,  but  we  are  not  dead  yet,"  was  her  remark ;  and 
to  do  unto  others  as  she  would  they  should  do  to  her, 
her  rule  of  conduct. 

My  grandmother  was  a  dear  lover  of  children,  and  she 
was  that  marvel,  an  old  person  who  could  tolerate  all 
their  wildness,  and  make  the  whirlwind  of  their  exuber- 
ance subservient  to  her  love.  She  drew  them  around 
her  by  the  magic  of  her  manner.  All  of  them  loved 
her,  and  found  themselves  by  her  side  in  a  sweet  but 
incongruous  companionship.  She  had  a  fund  of  stories 
for  them,  and  took  part  in  all  their  childish  sports. 
I  remember  she  was  great  at  Cat's-cradle,  and  at  Fox 
and  Geese  she  was  immense  —  always  managing,  how- 
ever, to  get  beaten,  and  would  be  delighted  at  the  ex- 
ultation with  which  her  juvenile  competitors  proclaimed 
their  victory ;  though  all  the  while  she  would  wonder, 
in  a  profound  manner,  how  it  could  be  that  she  was  so 
unlucky.  Delight  shone  in  her  eyes,  all  the  time,  that 
would  have  betrayed  to  older  experience  the  secret  of 
her  ill-success.  There  is  not  a  boy  or  girl  among  them 


MY  GRANDMOTHER.  187 

who  will  not,  at  this  late  day,  recall  my  grandmother, 
and  avouch  for  the  truth  of  all  that  is  herein  written. 

With  the  aged  she  was  an  old  woman,  talking  gravely 
of  the  past,  and  dwelling  in  cheerful  trust  on  the  future. 
That  future  was  all  bright  to  her.  The  vicissitudes  and 
cares  and  sorrows  of  eighty  years  had  done  their  work, 
and  she  was  ready  to  go.  This  readiness  was  based 
upon  no  canting  pretence  of  good,  and  no  belief  in  a 
prospective  crown  earned  in  the  discharge  of  Christian 
duty.  Her  duty  had  been  done  for  the  love  of  it,  and 
had  received  its  reward  in  the  reflection  of  its  own 
good.  She  was  good  because  she  couldn't  help  it. 
The  close  of  her  life  was  like  the  calm  glory  of  an 
autumn  evening,  and  the  mild  benignity  of  its  setting 
sun  gave  it  a  softness  and  beauty  that  plainly  heralded 
the  night  of  peaceful  rest  that  was  to  follow,  and  the 
glorious  resurrection  morn  beyond. 

Such  was  my  grandmother,  whose  humble  history  is 
here  attempted.  She  was  entitled  to  no  greater  his- 
torical prominence.  Her  life  was  in  a  small  round  of 
duties  well  done,  her  aim  limited  to  the  wish  to  make 
others  happy.  This  wish  sprang  from  the  infinite  love 
that  burned  within  her,  and  marked  all  her  life ;  and 
when  she  passed  away,  it  was  felt  that,  though  her  im- 
mediate sphere  was  circumscribed,  she  had  been  no 
inactive "  liver  here,  but  that  the  world  was  better  that 
she  had  moved  in  it. 


188  THE  MILL-BROOK. 


THE    MILL-BROOK. 

PIOSASANTI.Y  soundeth  the  old  mill-stream, 
In  the  summer  time  when  the  air  is  still ; 

It  steals  on  my  ear  like  a  voice  in  a  dream, 
And  it  moves  my  heart  as  it  moved  the  milL 

I  drink  in  its  gentle  monotone,  — 
'T  is  a  plaintive  ditty  it  sings  to  me, 

Of  an  early  love  that  its  youth  had  known, 
Of  sundered  ties,  and  constancy. 

Ah,  dearly  it  loved  the  sturdy  mill, 
And  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 

Did  the  influence  sweet  of  the  gentle  rill 
The  oaken  heart  of  the  stout  mill  cheer. 

The  bright  stream  gave  its  life  to  the  task, 
And  loved  the  mill  as  't  were  its  bride. 

And  ne'er  a  higher  boon  did  ask 
Than  day  and  night  to  seek  its  side  ; 

To  do  its  bid  with  earnest  zeal, 
And  uncomplaining  e'er  was  found  ; 

Content,  e'en  though  to  turn  a  wheel 
Might  prove  alone  its  duty's  round. 

And  Time  swept  o'er  the  ancient  mill, 
And  wasted  it  with  a  cruel  touch, 

But  lovingly  still  did  the  little  rill 
Cling  to  that  it  had  loved  so  much, 

Till  the  wheel  was  stilled,  and  drear  decay 
Became  enthroned  on  the  corner-stone, 

And  the  dam  a  shattered  ruin  lay, 
And  the  race  with  weeds  was  overgrown. 

But  constantly  the  gentle  tide, 

As  if  with  time  it  had  truer  grown, 

Alone  ran  on,  with  a  loving  pride, 
Amid  the  scenes  its  joy  had  known. 


DAMAGED   GOODS.  189 

And  as  gently  yet  it  flows  along, 

A  beauteous  type  of  a  loving  heart, 
That  death,  desertion,  or  cruel  wrong, 

Can  ne'er  make  from  its  course  depart. 

And  this  is  the  story  of  the  stream 

That  with  a  witchery  comes  to  me, 
And  mingles  with  my  pensive  dream 

Beneath  the  shade  of  the  wide-limbed  tree. 


DAMAGED    GOODS. 

"An  I"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  as  she  stood  looking  at 
the  placards  stuck  all  over  the  front  of  a  store,  adver- 
tising damaged  goods  for  sale.  It  was  not  a  big  R;  like 
those  which  doctors  begin  their  prescriptions  with,  but 
the  simple  ejaculation  "  ah  1 "  and,  as  she  said  it,  people 
going  along  listened  to  what  she  had  to  say.  "  This," 
continued  she, running  on  like  a  wheelbarrow,  "is  what 
is  meant  by  Mr.  Jaquets,  where  he  says  '  sweet  are  the 
uses  of  advertisements;'  but,"  —  and  here  she  butted 
against  the  word  "  damaged,"  making  two  words  of 
it,  with  a  profane  construction  on  the  first,  that  made 
her  hold  her  hands  up  in  unqualified  horror,  — "  but, 
though  the  goods  are  aged,  I  don't  see  the  need  of 
putting  it  quite  so  strong,  —  so  much  stronger  than  the 
goods  are,  I  dare  say."  Ike  here  pulled  her  sleeve,  at 
the  same  time  kicking  a  big  dog  on  the  nose,  who  was 
smelling  at  her  "  ridicule,"  and  the  old  lady  moved  on 
amid  the  crowd. 


190  THE   SPIRIT  OF  SEVENTY-SIX. 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    SEVENTY-SIX. 

A   JULY   DREAM. 

WHILE  sitting  alone  in  my  easy-chair, 

With  my  feet  on  my  desk,  in  abandon  of  care, 

My  eyes  in  a  dull  and  dreamy  eclipse 

By  the  cloud  of  a  Yara  that  rolled  from  my  lips, 

My  thoughts  in  a  whirl,  like  the  whirl  of  the  smoke, 

Part  sermon,  part  poem,  part  satire,  part  joke, 

Now  wrought  into  romance,  now  framed  to  a  speech, 

All  things  considered,  and  but  little  of  each, 

I  heard  a  great  sound  like  the  flapping  of  wings, 

Or  the  rushing  of  waters  released  from  their  springs, 

And  said,  with  a  nod,  as  the  sound  hastened  near, 

"  Should  that  be  the  comet,  now,  won't  it  be  queer  ?  " 

But,  I  thought  to  myself,  "  If  it  is,  let  it  come  ; 

I  'm  exceedingly  glad  it  has  found  me  at  home." 

I  'd  scarce  entertained  this  complacent  suggestion, 

And  ere  I  had  time  to  Bonder  the  question, 

Down  through  the  roof  by  invisible  door 

A  bright  form  descended,  and  stood  on  the  floor. 

"  Halloa,"  I  exclaimed,  as  I  saw  the  descent, 

"  You  've  come  in  a  hurry,  now  what 's  your  intent T  " 

I  looked  at  him  closely  —  a  queer  garb  he  wore, 

Yet  noble  and  grand  was  the  mien  that  he  bore. 

A  three-cornered  hat  on  his  powdered  hair  rested, 

A  broad-skirted  coat  his  figure  invested, 

A  waistcoat  of  buif  of  capacious  degree, 

And  breeches  by  buckles  secured  at  the  knee  ; 

Long  stockings  he  wore,  irreproachably  white, 

And  shoes  whose  paste  buckles  gleamed  in  the  light. 

His  face  was  as  bright  as  a  morning  in  May, 

And  my  room  was  lit  up,  as  it  seemed,  by  its  ray. 

He  smiled  as  I  spoke,  and,  touching  my  arm, 

His  power  enfolded  my  soul  like  a  charm. 

"  I  've  just  dropped  in,  my  friend,  as  you  see, 

Abruptly,  I  own,  and  may  be  too  free, 

But,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,  I  care  nix, 

For  I  am  the  Spirit  of  Seventy-Six  ! 

A  blustering  fellow  was  I,  in  my  day, 

And  somewhat  disposed  to  have  my  own  way. 

You  've  heard  of  me,  surely  ?  "     I  nodded  and  smiled, 

And  ventured :  "  You  're  known  to  every  child." 


THE  SPIRIT   OF  SEVENTY-SIX.  191 

"  Yes,"  said  the  ghost,  "  for  children  are  true, 

And  love  what  is  free,  and  practise  it  too  ; 

But,  when  they  are  older,  't  is  different  then, 

And  the  vim  of  the  boys  dies  out  with  the  men."  — 

•'  Be  careful,  old  Seven-and-Six  !  "  then  I  cried, 

As  my  breast  bubbled  over  with  patriot  pride, 

"  You  are  off  o'  the  track  —  miles  out  of  the  way  — 

To  cast  such  reflection  on  men  of  our  day. 

You  just  tarry  here  till  the  Fourth  of  July  !  "  — 

"  0,  bosh,"  said  he,  tartly,  "  that 's  all  in  your  eye 

Your  Fourth  of  July  is  naught  but  a  jest  — 

A  sort  of  a  snap-cracker  fizzle,  at  best ;  — 

Like  Sunday  devotion,  put  on  for  effect, 

That  Monday's  example  will  show  you  neglect. 

The  day  comes  along,  't  is  confusion  and  din, 

And  feathers  and  fuss,  and  fever  and  sin, 

A  pebble  of  fun  to  a  cart-load  of '  bricks,' 

And  this  is  the  Spirit  of  Seventy-Six  ! 

There  are  noble  spirits,  though,  I  will  allow," 

He  said,  as  he  saw  the  frown  on  my  brow, 

"  And  present  company  's  always  exempt 

From  all  implications  of  shame  or  contempt. 

But  look  at  the  land  ;  from  year's  end  to  end, 

What  strifes  and  dissensions  on  all  sides  ascend  ! 

No  union,  no  harmony,  ever  prevails, 

And  cries  of  discordance  burden  the  gales. 

Here  they  'd  dissever  the  bond  that  I  tied, 

For  whose  mighty  braid  my  children  have  died, 

And  there  they  would  stab  in  intestinal  strife 

The  '  parient '  thought  that  breathed  them  to  life,  — 

Uniting  in  purpose  in  only  one  way  : 

Consume  pig  and  powder  on  this  common  day  !  " 

"  Our  party  —  "  I  said,  in  a  tone  of  dislike. — 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  he,  "  at  no  party  I  strike  ; 

Each  pot  cannot  black  the  other  one  call,  — 

Depend  on 't,  you  're  all  of  you  black  enough,  all. 

The  picking  of  holes  in  each  other's  coats 

May  end  at  last  with  knives  at  your  throats. 

'T  was  a  watchword  of  ours,  and  worthy  your  ken, 

'  All  for  principle  —  nothing  for  men  ; '  — 

Should  you  kick  to  the  dogs  the  political  quacks, 

And  turn  upon  all  false  pretenders  your  backs, 


192  IKE  PARTINGTON   AND   PUGILISM. 

Give  heed  to  sound  sense,  and  steer  for  the  right, 

Keeping  Freedom's  old  beacon-fire  ever  in  sight, 

Still  clinging  to  UNION,  —  its  symbol  the  charm 

To  strengthen  each  heart,  and  nerve  every  arm, 

As  it  floats  in  its  beauty  o'er  land  and  o'er  sea, 

The  flag  of  a  land  undivided  and  free,  — 

Then  would  the  Fourth  be  no  meaningless  thing, 

But  a  yearly  returning  to  Liberty's  spring, 

And  the  jubilant  feeling  with  which  it  is  crowned 

Be  woven  in  action  the  whole  twelvemonth  round  ! " 

Just  then,  a  treacherous  fly,  I  suppose, 

Tickled  the  tip  of  my  sensitive  nose, 

And,  swinging  my  arm  with  a  motion  too  rash, 

I  lost  my  nice  balance,  and  fell  with  a  crash. 

I  woke  with  the  jar,  and  wildly  did  stare, 

But  nary  a  seven-and-sixpence  was  there  ! 

So  plain  was  the  vision,  I  scarcely  could  deem 

That  I  'd  been  essentially  hum'd  by  a  dream. 


IKE    PARTINGTON    AND    PUGILISM. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON  was  much  surprised  to  find  Ike,  one 
rainy  afternoon,  in  the  spare  room,  with  the  rag-bag 
hung  to  the  bed-post,  which  he  was  belaboring  very 
lustily  with  his  fists,  as  huge  as  two  one-cent  apples. 
"  What  gymnastiness  are  you  doing  here  ? "  said  she, 
as  she  opened  the  door.  He  did  not  stop,  and,  merely 
replying  "  training,"  continued  to  pitch  in.  She  stood 
looking  at  him  as  he  danced  around  the  bag,  busily 
punching  its  rotund  sides.  "  That 's  the  Morrissey 
touch,"  said  he,  giving  one  side  a  dig  ;  "  and  that " — 
hitting  the  other  side  —  "is  the  Benicia  Boy."  She 
said,  "  Stop,"  and  he  immediately  stopped,  after  he  had 
given  the  last  blow  for  Morrissey.  "  I  'm  afraid  the 
training  you  are  having  is  n't  good,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I 
think  you  had  better  train  in  some  other  company.  I 
thought  your  going  into  compound  fractures  in  school 


He  JW  not  stop,  and,  merely  replying  "  training,"  continued  to  pitch  In.    P. 


IKE  PARTINGTON  AND   PUGILISM.  193 

would  be  dilatorious  to  you.  I  don't  know  who  Mr. 
Morrison  is,  and  don't  want  to  ;  but  I  hear  that  he  has 
been  whipping  the  Pernicious  Boy,  a  poor  lad  with  a 
sore  leg,  and  I  think  he  should  be  ashamed  of  himself." 
Ike  had  read  the  "  Herald  with  all  about  the  great  prize 
fight "  in  it,  and  had  become  entirely  carried  away  with 
it.  "  How  strange  it  is,"  said  Dr.  Spooner,  as  he  was 
told  the  above,  "  that  boys  take  so  naturally  to  cruelty 
and  violence !  In  the  time  of  boyhood,  the  reason  has 
not  got  control,  and  hence  temptations  to  tyranny  and 
wrong  have  at  this  time  potent  force.  We  all  remem- 
ber the  tale  of  a  child,  —  not  a  caudality,  but  a  narra- 
tive, —  who  was  seeing  a  picture  of  the  holy  martyrs 
torn  to  pieces  by  lions,  in  the  days  of  Nero,  wherein 
one,  according  to  perspective,  that  was  in  the  back- 
ground, appeared  smaller ;  and,  as  it  appeared  to  be 
taking  no  part,  the  child,  instead  of  being  horror 
stricken  at  the  scene,  remarked,  with  considerable  anx- 
iety, that  the  little  lion  would  n't  get  any  martyr,  if  he 
was  n't  very  quick  !  So,  within  our  knowledge,  urchins 
in  school  were  punished  by  their  teacher  for  tying  up 
a  cat  and  whipping  it  to  death.  It  was  on  such  cases 
that  the  doctrine  of  man's  total  depravity  was  based. 
Boys  who  thus  began,  with  none  to  guide  them  by  the 
dangerous  period,  kept  right  on  in  wickedness,  whereas 
the  merest  slant  of  the  helm  to  port  might  have  saved 
them.  The  boy  is  the  least  understood  of  anything  in 
ttoe  animal  kingdom."  There  's  an  opinion  as  is  an 
opinion. 

IT  13 


194  THE   OLD  SOUTH   BELL. 


THE   OLD    SOUTH    BELL. 

WITH  effluent  note  and  musical  swell, 

Comes  the  voice  of  a  friend  —  the  Old  South  Bell ! 

It  speaks  to  me  with  an  eloquent  tongue, 

As  for  years  and  years  it  has  spoken  and  sung. 

By  night  and  by  day  has  it  served  us  well, 

The  faithful,  truthful  Old  South  Bell. 

Though  a  hundred  years  have  winged  their  flight. 

And  generations  have  sunk  in  night, 

The  bell  still  rings  with  a  tone  as  true 

As  that  which  its  morning  hour  first  knew, 

When  old  Trimountain  hill  and  dell 

First  heard  the  sound  of  the  Old  South  Bell. 

We  love  to  think  of  that  olden  time 
When  first  outspoke  its  pleasant  chime, 
And  fancy  the  ancient  matrons  and  men 
In  the  quaint  and  queer  old  garb  of  then, 
As  the  hour  of  prayer  the  tongue  did  tell 
Of  the  sanctimonious  Old  South  Bell. 

How  gravely  of  old  on  the  Sabbath  day 

Did  it  bid  the  people  to  church  away, 

And  gallants  and  maidens  in  silence  trod 

The  paths  that  led  to  the  house  of  God — 

Though  their  hearts  conversed,  we  know  right  well, 

As  talked  the  musical  Old  South  Bell. 

'T  was  a  glorious  peal  its  tongue  outspoke 

When  Freedom's  thrill  through  the  land  awoke ; 

And  ever  since,  on  each  natal  day, 

We  've  felt  our  pulses  the  quicker  play, 

And  we  've  loved  each  note  on  our  ear  that  fell 

From  the  jolly,  jubilant  Old  South  Beil. 

When  fire  has  threatened  the  town  witl  harm, 
The  Old  South  Bell  has  waked  alarm, 
And  the  firemen  rushed,  in  fleet  career, 
Its  clanging  and  warning  tones  to  hear, 
While  the  timid  trembled  at  the  knell 
Of  the  blatant,  garrulous  Old  South  Bell. 


THE  FALSES.  195 

And  sad  the  notes  the  bell  has  flung 

When  the  loved  have  passed  from  the  loved  among  ; 

And  the  mournful  throb  of  the  funeral  strain 

Has  given  the  aching  heart  more  pain, 

As  the  frequent  and  meaning  measure  fell 

From  the  grieving  tongue  of  the  Old  South  Bell. 

And  other  people  will  hear  its  voice, 
And  with  it  grieve,  or  with  it  rejoice, 
When  the  men  now  living  shall  pass  away 
To  join  those  of  the  earlier  day — 
But  still,  unchanging,  the  tone  will  swell 
Of  the  faithful  and  truthful  Old  South  Bell. 


THE    FALSES. 

THE  list  would  be  large,  should  we  attempt  to  enumer- 
ate them,  prevailing  as  they  do  everywhere.  The  falsea 
would  be  found  to  for  exceed  the  trues.  They  enter 
the  world  with  us  at  our  birth,  beset  every  avenue  to 
our  education,  and  stick  to  us  very  tenaciously  till  we 
are  called  for,  and  go.  The  falses  are  our  pets.  We 
fondle  them,  and  cherish  them,  and  enshrine  them,  and, 
through  their  speciousness,  often,  the  devil  becomes 
transformed  to  an  angel  of  light.  They  come  in  the 
guise  of  false  appetites,  false  tastes,  false  ideas,  and  false 
intentions,  —  the  worst  of  all,  where  we  make  falsity 
a  virtue  knowingly,  leading  us  to  concealments  and 
covert  action,  which  makes  the  hypocrite,  what  he  is, 
the  most  detestable  of  men.  What  a  hideous  spectacle 
it  would  be,  if  we  could  see  each  other  as  we  are  !  If 
the  scales  should  fall  from  our  eyes,  what  scaliness 
would  be  apparent  where  we  now  are  assured  of  good- 
ness !  The  shrines  where  we  have  brought  our  offer- 
ings would  be  found  in  ruins,  and  we  should  long  for 
our  blindness  again.  But,  speaking  of  falses,  awakens 


196  HARD  TIMES. 

a  ludicrous  conceit — the  false  making-up  of  the  exte- 
rior man :  the  false  eyes,  the  false  legs,  the  false  teeth, 
the  false  noses,  the  false  hair,  the  false  lips,  the  false 
complexion  !  Suppose  these  falses  should  be  removed, 
what  a  mumming  among  the  toothless,  and  what  a  stum- 
bling among  the  lame,  there  would  be  !  How  the  roses 
of  beauty  would  wither,  and  what  a  lank  longitude  the 
human  form  divine  would  assume  !  Almost  every  other 
man  we  meet  has  some  false  feature  in  his  external 
making-up.  Timms,  with  his  false  teeth  from  Cumminga 
and  Flagg's,  —  the  very  climax  of  dental  art,  —  grins  at 
Toby,  who  uses  Roathe's  hair-dye  ;  and  Toby  revenges 
himself  by  pointing  at  Hardup,  whose  bald  head  ia 
covered  with  one  of  Bogle's  wigs,  who,  in  his  turn, 
winks  significantly,  as  Beau  Nipchin  passes  wearing  one 
of  Page's  mechanical  legs  !  Thank  fortune,  we  say,  that 
we  have  been  preserved  from  a  necessity  for  any  such 
resorts. 


HARD    TIMES. 

0,  THE  wild  fever  of  this  mad  unrest, 

When  baffled  man,  amid  his  hopes  and  fears, 
Smites  in  despair  his  over-anxious  breast, 

Not  knowing  in  the  dark  which  way  he  steers ; 
With  brokers  on  his  lee,  and  subtle  sands, 

That  late  seemed  stones,  but  now  prove  naught  but  stocks 
He  wrings  imploringly  his  trembling  hands, 

And,  just  like  those  in  Scripture,  prays  the  rocks 
May  fall  upon  him — but  prefers  the  sort 

From  California  ;  and,  howe'er  their  power, 
'T  would  be  to  him,  just  now,  delightful  sport 

To  stand  and  weather  the  auriferous  shower, 
Begging  propitious  Fortune  to  let  down 
Boulders  of  any  size  —  he  '11  risk  his  crown. 


A  NIGHT  OFF  POINT  JUDITH.  *97 


A  NIGHT  OFF  POINT  JUDITH. 

DARK  was  the  night,  and  o'er  the  ocean's  breast 
The  angry  winds  went  howling  on  their  way, 

Vexing  the  billows  into  wild  unrest, 

Uncheered  by  e'en  a  star's  descending  ray  ; 

When,  struggling  through  the  tempest  and  the  gloom, 
Our  bark  complained  like  one  in  bitter  woe, 

As  if  in  dread  of  some  impending  doom, 
That  threatened  in  the  strife  its  overthrow. 

But  at  the  darkest,  when  the  shrinking  soul 
Was  merged  in  depths  of  bitterness  and  fear, 

Above  the  elemental  din  there  stole 

A  bell's  sweet  tone,  —  glad  music  to  our  ear  ! 

And  broad  before  us  beamed  the  beacon-light, 
The  twin-star  trembling  upon  Judith's  breast, 

That  put  at  once  all  brooding  fear  to  flight, 
And  gave  our  hearts  an  augury  of  rest. 

Light  out  of  darkness  !  —  so  amid  the  shade 
Of  sorrow's  night  a  light  supernal  breaks, 

And  from  the  dream  of  grief  that  late  dismayed 
The  soul  to  peaceful  consciousness  awakes. 


LETTER    WRITING. 

THERE  is  no  accomplishment  that  any  one  can  pos- 
sess superior  to  the  gift  of  letter  writing.  It  is  unques- 
tionably a  gift ;  and  those  possessing  it  make  no  effort 
to  acquire  it,  but  simply  lay  their  pen  to  paper,  and 
thoughts  flow  from  its  point  with  the  fluency  that 
words  drop  from  the  tongue  of  a  conversationalist. 
Letter  writers  are  not  necessarily  talkers ;  their  forte 
lies  in  the  scribendi  rather  than  the  loquendi.  It  io 
painful  to  read  the  labored  efforts  of  many  very  sensi- 
17* 


198  LETTER  WRITING. 

ble  people,  in  an  epistolary  direction  ;  and  it  almost 
militates  against  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from  them,  so 
great  a  labor  is  evident  in  the  construction  of  their 
missives.  The  easy  letter  writer  is  one  who  writes* 
from  a  full  heart ;  who  knows  just  what  to  say,  and 
how  to  say  it ;  and  the  spontaneous  flow  with  which  it 
gushes  makes  us  forget,  wherever  they  occur,  lapses 
in  grammar  or  orthography.  We  feel  the  spirit  of  the 
writer  in  every  word.  The  dryest  details  are  illumin- 
ated by  it,  and  the  homeliest  matters  assume  an  almost 
poetical  interest  under  the  touch  of  genius.  The  most 
charming  letter  writer  of  this  description,  who  poured 
his  soul  most  apparently  into  his  epistles,  whether  in 
relation  to  the  correction  of  a  proof-sheet,  or  to  a 
matter  affecting  the  tenderest  of  human  relations,  was 
Robert  Burns.  His  letters  are  models.  They  speak 
with  the  simplicity  and  pathos  and  strength  of  his 
great  nature,  and  everybody  is  as  interested  in  their 
subject-matter,  after  the  lapse  of  three  quarters  of  a 
century,  as  those  probably  were  to  whom  they  were 
addressed.  Though  a  gift,  practice  will  overcome  many 
natural  impediments  in  the  way  of  success,  and  the  en- 
couragement of  correspondence  among  the  young  will 
be  found  advantageous  in  after  life. 


SYMPATHY.  199 

SYMPATHY. 

"WERE  you  ever  at  Lake  Winnipiseogee  ?"  a  friend 
asked.  We  assured  him  that  felicity  was  in  reserve. 
"  Well,"  said  he,  with  animation,  "  I  should  like  to  go 
up  there  with  you,  next  summer,  and  show  you  the 
greatest  sights  you  ever  saw  ;  such  beautiful  hills,  such 
magnificent  distances,  such  delightful  sheets  of  water, 
such  splendid  sunrises  !  Why,  a  sail  across  the  lake 
would  reveal  to  you  more  delights  than  you  ever 
dreamt  of  after  witnessing  a  fairy  spectacle.  You 
must  go."  And  we  resolved  to  go,  but  not  with  him. 
Such  a  companion,  with  so  much  enthusiasm,  would  be 
insufferable.  Companionship  is  only  desirable  where 
silence,  not  voice,  expresses  sympathy  with  nature  and 
with  ourselves.  The  utterance  of  delightful  adjectives 
is  a  bore,  the  human  voice  is  a  bore,  the  officious  prof- 
fering of  opinion  is  a  worse  than  bore.  We  know 
the  annoyance  of  the  concert-room  when  the  soul  is 
at  its  acme  of  appreciative  bliss,  to  have  a  vein  of  small 
talk  permeating  the  melody.  The  nerves,  stretched  on 
the  tuneful  rack,  are  more  susceptible  then,  and  the 
chit-chat,  untimely  carried  on,  is  sadly  provocative  of 
violence.  We  feel  that  it  cannot  be  tolerated,  and  a 
counteracting  bitterness  is  excited  in  proportion  to  the 
effluence  of  the  sweet.  So  by  the  sea-shore,  or  on  a 
mountain,  or  a  lake,  or  a  prairie,  or  in  a  wood,  the  same 
feeling  prevails,  the  delights  we  realize  fixing  the  meas- 
ure of  the  annoyance.  We  feel  sometimes  that  it  is 
good  for  a  man  to  be  alone,  when  he  lends  himself 
to  enjoyments  like  those  afforded  by  communion  with 
nature. 

The  voice  of  friendship  sounds  harsh  when  it  dis- 
turbs the  silence  of  the  fields ;  and  the  kindest  words 


200  SEA-AIR. 

would  fain  be  dispensed  with,  or  deferred  till  a  more 
convenient  season,  if  uttered  when  the  soul  is  filled 
with  its  devotion.  But  infinitely  worse  is  it  when  the 
garrulous  drive  of  ordinary  companionship  chatters 
about  one's  ears,  obtruding  itself  upon  the  sacredness, 
like  a  parrot  in  a  church.  This  fastidiousness  is  not. 
peculiar  to  ourselves,  and,  though  it  may  not  be 
expressed,  it  is  very  generally  felt. 


SEA-AIR. 

"  ARE  there  many  people  masticating  at  the  sea-side  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Partington  of  one  who  had  returned  from 
there,  bearing  evident  marks  of  being  used  up.  He  in- 
formed her  that  there  were,  but  that  the  wet  weather 
had  had  a  tendency  to  keep  them  in-doors,  and  that  rus- 
ticating by  the  sea,  if  she  meant  that,  had  been  attended 
with  some  mastication  likewise.  "  How  pleasant  it  must 
have  been,"  said  she,  smiling  like  the  distant  sunshine, 
"  when  denied  the  pleasure  of  imbibing  the  air  out  doors, 
that  you  could  imbibe  within  !  It  has  had  a  very  bene- 
ficious  effect  on  your  health ;  for  your  countenance  is 
as  blooming  as  a  peony."  —  "  The  sea-air  is  very  salu- 
brious," replied  he,  "  and  the  constitution  soon  begins  to 
show  its  effects." — "  Yes,"  said  the  dame,  taking  a  pinch 
of  snuff,  "  so  I  should  jedge  ;  and  not  only  the  constitu- 
tion, but  all  of  the  revised  statues,  besides.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  sea  is  slewbrious,  very — " — "  And  a  great 
slew  of  people  go  to  see  it,"  said  Ike,  breaking  in.  — • 
"  But  depend  upon  it,"  continued  she,  "  there  's  some- 
thing at  the  bottom  of  it." —  "  What  is  that  ?  "  inquired 
the  young  man,  raising  his  eyes  from  a  page  of  Chitty'a 
Pleadings.  —  "  The  telegraph  cable,  perhaps,"  replied 


AN  ODD  FELLOW'S  FUNERAL.  201 

she,  concluding  her  pinch.  The  young  man  whistled 
faintly,  and  Ike  at  the  instant  knocked  over  an  ink- 
bottle  with  a  feather-duster,  in  an  attempt  to  kill  a  fly. 


AN    ODD    FELLOW'S    FUNERAL. 

BENDING  sadly  o'er  thy  form, 
Late  with  Love  and  Friendship  warm, 
Brother,  in  our  night  of  grief, 
What  shall  give  our  hearts  relief? 

Shrined  within  this  mortal  clay, 
Such  a  loving  spirit  lay, 
That  we  shrink,  with  half  distrust, 
Ere  we  give  it  back  to  dust. 

Charity's  unfading  light, 
Honor's  lustre,  pure  and  bright, 
Truth's  effulgent  radiance  blest, 
Ever  filled  that  faithful  breast. 

Generous  manliness  and  grace 
Found  a  constant  'biding-place 
In  the  fane  here  closed  and  dark, 
Quenched  its  late  illuming  spark. 

Brother,  from  thy  heavenly  rest, 
From  thy  home  amid  the  blest, 
Come,  in  angel  guise,  to  cheer 
Those  who  sorrow  for  thee  here. 

From  that  radiant  "  Lodge  on  High,'* 
Comes  to  us  this  glad  reply  : 
Mourn  not,  for  the  path  he  's  trod 
One  degree  is  nearer  God. 


202  THE   COUKTS. 

THE    COURTS. 

THE  courts  are  great  institutions.  We  always  take 
our  hats  off  in  a  court-room,  partly  from  reverence  for 
the  law,  partly  from  respect  for  the  custom  of  the  place, 
and  partly  from  fear  of  having  it  knocked  from  our  own 
poll  by  the  pole  of  a  constable.  What  a  dignity  — 
awful  and  sublime  —  seems  embodied  in  the  justice,  who 
figures  in  the  reports  as  the  alphabetical  and  familiar 
"  J."  We  hear  him  addressed  as  "  yer  honor,"  and  the 
spirit  prostrates  itself  before  the  exponent  of  stern  jus- 
tice, while  fancy  draws  an  imaginary  sword  and  a  pair 
of  huge  scales  in  his  hand  —  the  latter  of  which  are  to 
be  used  in  weighing  the  exactest  awards,  and  the  former 
to  cut  off  from  the  side  on  which  the  surplusage  re- 
mains, as  a  butcher  would  divide  a  piece  of  beef,  or  a 
grocer  would  divide  a  cheese.  We  cannot  divest  our- 
selves of  the  idea  that  we  have  seen  his  honor  eating  a 
hearty  dinner  at  Parker's,  and  laughing  like  he  'd  die  at 
a  funny  joke,  and  telling  many  himself  with  infinite 
gusto,  and  "  dipping  his  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine"  with 
stupendous  relish,  as  though  he  were  an  excellent  judge 
of  such  things.  The  judicial  ermine  becomes,  in  the 
light  of  reality,  a  genteel  black  coat,  made  by  Arming- 
ton,  and  the  sword  and  scales  fade  away  like  mystic 
things  seen  in  dreams.  What  a  subject  for  contempla- 
tion is  the  jury, — that "  palladium  of  our  liberty,"  as  some 
one  has  called  it, — which  stands  between  the  law  and 
trembling  rascality,  in  dignified  impartiality,  to  listen  to 
the  evidence,  the  pleadings,  and  the  charge,  and  remem- 
ber enough  of  the  combined  stupidity  —  if  they  are 
capable  of  remembering  it — to  say  which  side  shall 
win.  We  love  to  look  upon  those  devoted  conscripts 
of  the  state,  with  their  minds  made  up  to  one  point 


THE   COURTS.  203 

before  they  begin  —  that  they  are  bored.  The  sheriff's 
wand  and  the  sword,  that  fearful  implement,  ready  to 
impale  any  one  who  may  transgress,  are  fearful  things 
to  contemplate ;  and  we  turn  to  listen  to  the  oath  so 
solemnly  administered  to  the  trembling  witnesses,  who 
hold  up  their  right  hands  and  bow  when  the  sound  of 
the  clerk's  voice  has  ceased,  just  as  if  they  had  under- 
stood what  he  said.  But  a  spectacle  sublime  as  is  to  be 
met  with  in  court  is  the  examination  of  witnesses  in 
order  to  arrive  at  the  truth  of  a  case.  Had  this  not 
been  so  faithfully  described  in  the  report  of  the  case  of 
Bardell  vs.  Pickwick,  it  would  be  well  to  speak  of  it  at 
this  time.  Of  course,  every  one  who  goes  on  the  stand 
is  a  conspirator  on  one  side  or  the  other,  and  is  dis- 
posed—  so  great  is  the  depravity  of  the  human  heart — 
to  lie  ;  hence  it  is  necessary  for  counsellors,  who  are 
dear  lovers  of  the  truth,  to  browbeat  and  harass  them 
by  a  thousand  impertinent  questions,  in  order  to  worry 
the  scoundrels  into  truthfulness  by  making  what  they 
say  sound  as  little  like  the  truth  as  possible.  A  man 
goes  upon  the  stand  with  an  idea  that  he  is,  like  Hamlet, 
indifferent  honest,  but  leaves  it  with  a  strong  impres- 
sion that  he  combines  in  himself  the  qualities  of  all  the 
great  liars  that  ever  lived,  from  Ananias  to  Munchausen, 
has  robbed  a  grave-yard,  passed  counterfeit  money,  spent 
ten  years  in  state-prison,  and  deserves  to  go  there  again  ! 
Great  is  justice,  and  her  courts  are  sacred.  We  take 
our  shoes  off,  figuratively,  in  reverence,  and  move  out, 
shutting  the  door  quickly,  lest  any  of  the  atmosphere  of 
the  precinct  be  displaced  by  the  obtrusion  of  unsano 
tified  air. 


204  SICK   OP  IT. 

SICK    OF   IT 

THERE  is  a  vaulting  am'bition  that  o'erleaps  itself,  and 
falls  on  the  other  side  —  a  biting-the-nose-off  operation, 
to  manifest  a  contempt  for  the  face  —  a  performance  of 
very  hard  work,  to  avoid  a  very  simple  job.  This  was 
illustrated,  during  the  skating  season,  very  capitally,  by 
Ike.  He  had  asked  permission  to  remain  at  home,  but 
Mrs.  Partington  told  him,  if  he  ever  expected  to  be  an 
'  iminent  man,  he  must  be  acidulous  in  his  studies ; " 
and  he  went  to  school  with  a  feeling  something  akin  — 
perhaps  a  second  cousin — to  disappointment.  His  new 
skates  were  aching  to  be  tried,  and  the  dim,  hazy  atmos- 
phere had  in  it  a  foreboding  of  snow.  Temptation  beset 
him  from  within  and  without.  All  the  Bill  Joneses  and 
Tom  Smiths  seemed  to  be  going  skating.  He  met  them 
as  he  went  along  to  school,  and  they  all  pulled  him  by 
the  sleeve,  and  asked  him  to  join  them.  "  I  '11  tell  you 
what  you  can  do,"  said  one  of  them :  "  eat  a  piece  of 
this  when  you  get  to  school,  and  it  '11  make  you  sick 
enough  to  go  home."  He  gave  him  a  small  piece  of 
a  dark  substance,  and  Ike  went  to  school.  —  "  Please, 
ma'am,"  said  one  of  the  scholars,  "  Ike  Partington 's 
sick."  He  sat  with  his  head  bowed  down  on  his  hands, 
and  his  teacher  spoke  to  him.  He  looked  up,  as  she 
spoke,  and  his  paleness  startled  her.  "  You  had  better 
go  home,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  alarm ;  "  perhaps  the 
air  will  make  you  feel  better."  He  went  out,  but  the 
earth  seemed  sick  to  him.  It  appeared  to  heave  at 
every  step.  The  Bill  Joneses  and  Tom  Smiths  were 
watching  for  him  round  the  corner ;  but  they  seemed  to 
him  to  be  diseased  —  they  looked  jaundiced  and  yellow. 
They  took  him  by  the  arras  to  lead  him  to  the  creek, 
but  he  longed  to  throw  himself  beside  every  fence. 


LOOK  UP.  205 

The  skates  looked  hateful  to  him,  and  the  ice  was  a  big 
mirror  in  which  a  naughty  boy  had  to  see  himself  mag- 
nified. The  whirling  of  the  skaters  made  his  head 
swim.  He  never  felt  so  before,  and  he  thought  he  was 
going  to  die.  The  thought  of  his  duplicity  made  him 
feel  worse,  and  he  resolved  to  go  home,  as  Mrs.  Par- 
tiagton  told  us,  "  like  the  Probable  Son,"  and  "  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it,"  which  was  accomplished  by  con- 
fession and  a  draught  of  warm  water.  We  publish  this 
story  for  the  benefit  of  little  people  who  are  interested 
in  Ike,  who  might  be  induced,  like  him,  to  eat  tobacco 
in  order  to  get  out  of  school. 


LOOK   UP. 

LOOK  up,  and  let  your  ravished  eyes  unfold 

In  purer  airs  than  these  terrestrial  mists ; 
Embrace  the  firmament  above  unrolled, 

And  sun  and  stars,  God's  bright  evangelists  ;  — 
Look  upward,  and  the  heavenly  light  will  pour 

Down  in  your  soul,  and  cheer  it  with  its  ray, 
As,  through  the  sun's  sweet  effluence,  the  flower 

Unfolds  to  beautify  and  bless  the  day. 
Look  up,  and  thus  the  earth-environed  soul 

May  get  a  glimpse  of  the  pellucid  stars, 
As  prisoners  held  by  outraged  law's  control 

Catch  day's  bright  glories  through  their  dungeon  bars. 
But  where  those  masons  make  the  mortar  fly, 
'T  were  best  then  to  "  look  out,"  and  "  mind  your  eye." 
18 


A  DOMESTIC   STORY. 
i 

MRS.  CLEMENT  declared  that  she  was  not  jealous. 
She  had  affirmed  this  so  often  that  she  believed  it,  as 
fully  as  she  believed  that  Tom  Clement,  her  husband, 
was  the  handsomest  fellow  in  the  world.  The  Clements 
had  been  married  for  several  years,  and  it  had  been 
fair  weather  with  them  all  the  time.  It  was  a  standing 
^>ke  with  them  that  nothing  inclement  could  occur 
where  both  parties  were  Clement,  and  all  went  on 
smoothly  enough.  Children  were  born  to  them,  — 
beautifully  harmonious  children,  —  born  under  pleasant 
auspices,  and  were  models  for  the  world's  imitation. 
Such  babies  rarely  were  to  be  seen,  and  they  were  tall 
feathers  in  the  family  cap,  and  added  greatly  to  the  hap- 
piness of  the  worthy  couple  who  boasted  their  paternity. 

Nothing  like  jealousy  ever  entered  that  happy  house- 
hold. Clement  regarded  his  wife  as  an  angel,  and  when 
any  visiting  friend  would  joke  with  him  concerning  the 
wickedness  of  the  times,  and  about  standing  on  slippery 
places,  he  would  snap  his  fingers,  as  much  as  to  say  he 
did  n't  care  a  snap,  not  he,  for  the  suggestion,  feeling  so 
confident  in  her  integrity. 

While  this  feeling  was  at  its  height,  a  new  family 
moved  into  the  Clement  neighborhood.  They  were 
young  people,  and  genteel  according  to  the  orthodox 
standard  of  gentility.  Their  name  was  Seville.  They 
had  moved  into  Hopetown  from  abroad,  and  brought 
with  them  letters  to  the  best  families  in  town ;  among 
the  rest  to  the  Clements,  who  took  an  early  occasion  to 

(200) 


A  DOMESTIC   STORY.  207 

call  upon  their  new  neighbors,  and  proffer  them  the 
courtesies  usually  bestowed  upon  new  comers  by  old 
settlers.  They  found  the  Sevilles  very  fine  people  ; 
the  one  a  gentlemanly  and  pleasant  man,  the  other  a 
lady  of  rare  beauty  and  winning  address,  and  the  visit 
afforded  great  satisfaction  to  the  Clements.  It  was  re- 
newed afterwards,  and  a  very  agreeable  sociality  sprang 
up  between  the  families,  and  mutual  and  frequent  vis- 
itations were  exchanged. 

At  these  visitations,  Mrs.  Clement  noticed  how  atten- 
tive her  husband  was  to  Mrs.  Seville,  and  Clement  re- 
marked that  his  wife  seemed  very  happy  at  the  atten- 
tions of  Mr.  Seville.  Still,  there  was  no  jealousy 
mingling  with  the  feeling. 

"  Mrs.  Seville  is  a  charming  woman,"  said  Clement,  as 
he  was  proceeding  home,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  "  a 
charming  woman." 

He  looked  up  at  fiery  Arcturus  as  he  spoke,  as  if  he 
were  informing  that  luminary  of  the  fact ;  and  the  star 
seemed  to  wink  at  him  in  return. 

"  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Seville  a  very  splendid  man  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Clement.  "  Such  a  noble  bearing,  such  a 
tenderness  of  manner,  such  whiskers  ! " 

She  spoke  earnestly,  and  bore  down  heavily  upon 
Clement's  arm,  looking  at  a  distant  gas-light,  which 
seemed  to  glare  upon  her  like  a  burning  eye.  And  thus 
they  walked  home,  without  exchanging  another  word. 

It  occurred  to  Tom  Clement,  the  next  day,  that  his 
wife  was  strangely  intimate  with  Seville,  the  night 
before,  and  he  remembered  her  eulogistic  remark  con- 
cerning him  with  a  feeling  akin  to  pain.  But  he  was 
not  jealous.  The  feeling  was  simply  a  dread  lest  she 
should  be  deemed  imprudent. 

"How   strangely   infatuated    Thomas    is   with   Mrs. 


208  A   DOMESTIC   STORY. 

Seville ! "  said  Mrs.  Clement  to  herself,  the  next  day,  a» 
she  sat  alone.  "  What  attention  he  pays  her !  How  h° 
lolls  over  her  chair,  and  turns  over  the  leaves  of  her 
music-book  !  It  is  years  since  he  has  been  so  attentive 
to  me."  There  was  a  tear  in  her  eye  as  she  said  or 
thought  this,  and  something  like  a  sigh  escaped  her 
lips.  But  she  was  not  jealous.  That  was  an  admission 
that  she  would  never  make,  even  to  herself. 

And  thus  things  went  on.  Weeks  passed  away,  and 
harmony  was  unbroken  in  the  home  of  the  Clements. 

"Are  not  Seville's  attentions  to  you  rather  annoy- 
ing ?  "  asked  Clement,  one  morning,  at  breakfast.  He 
asked  it  carelessly,  as  though  he  were  indifferent  about 
it  himself,  and  only  spoke  on  her  account.  She  colored 
up  very  warmly,  before  she  replied, 

"  I  asked  Mrs.  Seville  the  same  question  concerning 
your  attentions  to  her.  I  guess,  if  she  can  endure  her 
affliction,  I  can  mine." 

There  was  a  little  mustard  in  the  reply, — about  as 
much  as  is  found  in  a  lobster-salad,  rendering  it  slightly 
acrid. 

Clement  was  surprised  at  the  reply.  He  —  lie,  —  the 
model  husband,  whose  irreproachable  constancy  had 
long  been  a  subject  of  admiration  —  to  himself —  to  be 
thus  assailed,  by  implication  even,  was  not  to  be  borne 
without  suitable  notice.  He  laid  down  his  knife  in 
order  to  give  due  effect  to  what  he  was  to  say,  as  a 
rebuke  or  a  moral  lesson,  given  with  a  mouthful  of  food 
for  mastication,  loses  in  its  effect  as  food  for  reflection, 
—  a  fact  duly  enforced  by  a  recent  decision  of  the 
Retro-Progressive  Unity. 

"  Do  you  say,  Jane,"  said  he,  severely,  "  that  I  pay 
more  attention  to  Mrs.  Seville  than  is  called  for  by  the 
rules  of  courtesy  ?  " 


A  DOMESTIC  STORY.  209 

"  And  do  you  think,  Thomas,"  replied  she,  "  that  Mr. 
Seville  pays  more  attention  to  me  than  gentlemanly 
politeness  might  warrant  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  he,  rapping  his  knife-handle  on  the  table. 

"  Ditto  I  do,"  said  she,  spilling  her  coffee,  in  her  agi- 
tation. 

Clement  pushed  his  chair  away  from  the  table,  and, 
with  his  breakfast  unfinished,  left  the  house.  It  was 
the  first  domestic  squall  that  had  ever  swept  over  their 
home,  and,  like  the  received  opinion  of  the  effect  of  the 
fall  of  man  upon  the  earth,  sorrow  followed  it.  At 
home,  the  children  were  cross,  the  cat  had  a  fit,  the 
clothes-horse  fell  over  upon  the  stove,  the  maid  burst  a 
fluid-lamp,  and  general  confusion  prevailed.  At  the 
store,  Clement  quarrelled  with  his  partner,  offended  a 
customer,  could  n't  raise  money  to  pay  a  note,  took  a 
counterfeit  bill,  was  drawn  on  a  jury,  and  had  his 
pocket  picked. 

It  was  with  a  sad  heart  that  he  proceeded  homeward 
at  night,  where  he  had  found  so  much  peace  and  hap- 
piness. He  dreaded  to  go  home,  dreaded  to  meet  the 
wife  he  had  so  long  loved ;  and  yet  he  frit  angry  that 
she  should  treat  him  thus.  He  had  done  nothing 
wrong,  and  she  alone  was  responsible  for  all  the  dark- 
ness that  he  felt  was  lowering  around  his  house.  And 
then  there  arose  in  his  mind  dark  images  of  separation 
and  disgrace,  that  haunted  him  like  devils,  and  the  pic- 
ture of  a  ruined  home  and  banished  peace  ;  and  he  shut 
his  eyes  and  groaned  in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit. 
He  entered  his  door  with  a  moody  brow,  and,  like  the 
shadow  of  his  own,  his  wife's  brow  was  troubled,  and 
she  acted  as  if  she  felt,  for  the  first  time,  the  duty  of 
house-keeping.  There  was  no  cheerfulness  in  it. 
18*  14 


210  A   DOMESTIC   STORY. 

"  I  have  business  that  will  keep  me  late  this  evening," 
said  he,  dryly. 

"  Very  well,"  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of  indifference ; 
"  I  shall  not  sit  up  for  you,  then." 

And  thus  they  parted  for  a  second  time.  I  am  a 
believer  in  the  utility  of  these  little  acidities.  The  mild 
reactions  of  temper  have  an  effect  to  break  up  the  crust 
that  environs  a  life  possessed  of  too  much  peace.  The 
iron  lying  unused  dies  of  corrosion.  Gentle  rubs  are 
needed  to  keep  us  bright.  Love  glows  diviner  when 
emerging  from  the  little  clouds  which  for  the  moment 
obscure  it.  But  this  quarrel  was  more  serious;  it 
sprung,  not  from  matters  inherent  in  the  parties, —  little 
pettishness,  or  wilfulness,  that  has  but  a  momentary 
existence,  which,  like  Cassio's  temper,''  emits  a  hasty 
spark,  and  then  is  straightway  cold  again.  It  had  its 
rise  in  extraneous  ground,  and  jealousy,  that  snake 
in  the  grass,  lay  coiled  at  its  root.  They  were  not 
jealous,  however,  if  one  were  to  believe  them. 

Clement  was  away  every  night  for  a  week,  on  busi- 
ness, of  course,  as  he  told  his  wife,  in  the  brief  conver- 
sation that  occurred  between  them ;  and  she  expressed 
no  concern  about  it  at  all,  though  when  she  was  alone 
she  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break  with  her  sorrow. 
She  would  not  let  him  know  she  felt  so  badly,  for  the 
world,  so  stubborn  is  the  womanly  nature ;  and  he, 
though  he  felt  penitent,  would  not  make  advances 
towards  a  reconciliation,  so  obstinate  is  the  manly 
nature.  As  some  one  has  said,  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
human  nature  in  men  and  women. 

Neither  had  visited  the  Sevilles  all  the  while  the 
quarrel  had  lasted.  They  had  thought  so  much  of  each 
other  that  they  had  no  room  for  any  other  thought. 

"  I  saw  your  wife,  last  night,  Tom,"  said  a  neighbor, 


A  DOMESTIC  STORT.  211 

"  coming  out  of  Seville's  gate.  You  did  n't  know  his 
wife  had  gone  out  of  town,  did  you  ?  " 

If  he  had  received  a  pretty  h^rd  knock  on  the  head, 
he  could  not  have  been  more  astonished.  But  .he  tried 
to  assume  the  old  confident  tone. 

"  You  did,  eh?  well,  what  of  it?" 

"  Why,  it 's  all  well  enough,  I  suppose,"  said  the  tor- 
mentor, giving  a  wink  to  a  bystander,  which  Clement 
did  not  see ;  "  but  I  thought  it  was  rather  a  queer  time 
to  visit  a  house,  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  when  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  was  away.  She  went  three  days  ago." 

"  I  '11  risk  it,"  said  he,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile  that 
was  a  positive  failure,  and  turned  away  to  conceal  his 
emotion. 

He  was  as  crazy  as  a  spirit-rapper,  all  the  rest  of  the 
day.  He  made  entries  in  the  ledger,  and  attempted  to 
strike  a  balance  in  the  day-book.  He  drew  a  check 
payable  to  Seville,  and  put  his  wife's  name  to  it.  He 
addressed  his  partner  as  Seville,  and  drew  up  a  promise 
to  pay,  payable  at  "ten  o'clock  at  night,"  instead  of 
ninety  days.  But  amidst  it  all  he  came  to  a  great  con- 
clusion —  he  would  watch  his  wife.  What  a  step  this 
was,  where  distrust  resolved  to  tip-toe  it  through  the 
dark,  and  watch  the  movements  of  one  his  heart  told 
him  he  loved  !  Though  it  has  been  a  madness  of  mine 
that  jealousy  and  love  were  incompatible ;  that  true  love 
expended  itself  irrespective  of  its  object,  and  would 
lead  to  sorrow  and  death,  but  not  to  hate  ;  that  jealousy 
is  a  selfish  feeling,  springing  from  passion  unrequited, 
but  passion  is  not  love,  though  the  dictionary  says  so. 
This  may  be  only  a  craze,  so  let  it  pass  that  he  loved 
her.  It  was  a  mean  thing  to  watch  her,  at  any  rate. 

He  informed  her,  when  he  went  home,  that  business 
would  keep  him  out ;  but  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  so 


212  A  DOMESTIC  STORY. 

different  from  what  it  had  been  when  he  had  previously 
made  her  the  same  grave  announcement,  that  she  was 
struck  by  it.  At  that  moment,  from  some  quarter,  a 
little  suspicion  dropped  down  into  her  mind,  just  as  she 
dropped  a  lump  of  sugar  into  her  tea,  though  the  sus- 
picion was  not  as  sweet,  and  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Seville 
became  revealed  to  her  gaze  plainly  in  the  lump  of 
butter  on  the  table.  She  had  heard,  that  very  afternoon, 
that  Mr.  Seville  had  been  called  out  of  town  on  busi- 
ness, and  her  little  head  at  once  assumed  it  to  be  cer- 
tain that  the  treacherous  Tom  was  to  spend  the  evening 
in  the  society  of  the  lonesome  wife.  Harrowing  reflec- 
tion !  But  she  said  nothing. 

Clement  went  out,  like  a  lamp  filled  with  bad  oil,  and, 
after  a  little  while,  Mrs.  Clement  came  down  stairs 
dressed  in  a  perfect  disguise,  she  having  drawn  largely 
upon  the  servant's  wardrobe,  and  her  own  mother 
wouldn't  have  known  her  from  the  Milesian  Biddy 
whose  dress  she  wore.  She  opened  the  door  softly,  and 
went  out. 

"  There  she  comes,"  said  Clement ;  "  I  know  her 
through  all  her  disguises." 

He  stood  just  across  the  street,  leaning  upon  a  post. 
His  heart  beat  a  quick  measure  against  his  ribs,  and  his 
knees  knocked  together  as  he  thought  of  the  perfidy  he 
was  about  to  detect.  He  moved  down  the  street,  with 
his  eye  upon  the  little  figure  flitting  along  before  him  in 
the  gloom  of  night,  with  which  his  own  gloom  was  in 
perfect  sympathy.  She  stopped,  at  last.  His  suspicion 
was  too  true.  She  entered  the  gate  leading  to  the 
Seville  mansion.  He  waited  long  enough  to  give  her  a 
chance  to  enter  before  he  ventured  to  follow. 

A  bright  light  burned  in  a  lower  corner  room,  in 
which  room  were  two  windows,  one  looking  towards. 


A  DOMESTIC   STOEY.  213 

the  front  of  the  house,  and  the  other  towaids  the  end. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  with  "  Tarquin'a 
ravishing  strides,"  he  stole  into  the  enclosure,  and  took 
position  beside  the  end  window.  There  was  an  indis- 
tinct sound  of  voices  inside^  - —  masculine  and  feminine, 
—  but  whose  he  could  not  determine.  The  curtain, 
too,  was  obstinately  close,  admitting  not  a  single  con- 
venient eye-hole,  so  essential  in  cases  where  a  criminal 
thing  is  to  be  proved.  He  listened  painfully,  but  the 
voices  were  provokingly  indistinct.  He  thought  he 
would  go  round  to  the  other  window,  and  see  if  he 
could  see  better.  As  he  stealthily  neared  the  corner, 
feeling  his  way  along  in  the  dark,  he  came  in  con- 
tact with  another  form,  that  appeared  to  be  groping 
in  the  direction  which  he  came.  He  grasped  the  form 
in  his  arms.  A  shriek  rang  out  on  the  night-air.  The 
door  opened,  and  Mr.  Seville  and  his  wife  were  revealed, 
by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  standing  on  the  door-step. 

"  Hallo,  Clement ! "  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  surprise  ; 
"  why  don't  you  come  in  ?  Who  screamed  ?  " 

"  ;T  was  —  't  was — 't  was  my  wife,"  replied  he,  rather 
confused.  "  She  struck  against  something,  and  was 
much  alarmed." 

"  Well,  come  in,"  said  Seville ;  and  they  stepped 
inside  the  door. 

"  I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Seville,  "  I  should  think  you 
were  coming  to  surprise  us,  you  look  so  strangely. 
Why,  how  queerly  you  are  dressed,  Mrs.  Clement ! " 

"  'T  was  a  whim  of  mine,"  said  that  little  woman, 
with  a  faint  attempt  to  laugh  ;  '<  please  excuse  it,  do." 

She  did  not  dare  give  the  reason  for  her  strange  dis- 
guise, but  held  her  head  down,  and  seemed  rather 
ashamed  of  it,  or  of  herself.  As  she  glanced  up  into 
her  husband's  face,  and  saw  the  troubled  expression  it 


214  A  DOMESTIC  STORY. 

wore,  she  wished  to  throw  herself  upon  his  breast  and 
explain  the  mystery  to  him,  and  beg  to  be  forgiven,  and 
to  forgive  him,  whether  he  begged  it  or  not,  for  the  pain 
he  had  caused  her,  but  was  restrained  by  the  presence 
of  the  Sevilles.  She  saw  the  necessity  of  keeping  from 
them  the  secret ;  and  so,  overcoming  the  embarrassment 
of  her  manner,  she  became  the  vivacious  and  sparkling 
little  creature,  to  all  appearances,  that  she  ever  had 
been.  She  laughed  at  her  bonnet,  and  laughed  at  her 
dress,  and  made  fun  of  herself  in  every  way  ;  but  there 
was  a  terrible  choking  in  her  throat,  all  the  time,  and 
she  would  much  rather  have  cried. 

Somehow  or  other,  her  husband's  attentions  to  Mrs. 
Seville  did  not  seem  half  so  pointed  to  Mrs.  Clement, 
and  the  assiduity  of  Seville  to  please  his  wife  did  not 
seem  any  way  offensive  to  Tom  Clement.  His  thoughts 
were  all  with  his  wife,  as  hers  were  with  him ;  and  they 
mutually  longed  to  be  together,  that  they  might  have 
the  mystery  cleared  up.  The  feeling  became  insup- 
portable, at  length,  and,  bidding  good-by,  they  brought 
all  the  hypocrisy  and  lying  of  dissembled  pleasure  to  a 
close,  and  went  home  —  home,  that  had  not  been  home 
for  a  week,  that  had  seemed  as  long  as  four  common 
sunless  weeks ;  for  the  sun  of  their  love  was  under  a 
cloud. 

As  soon  as  they  arrived,  even  before  she  had  taken 
off  her  disguise,  she  threw  herself  upon  his  neck,  and 
asked  his  forgiveness. 

"  Forgive  me  !  —  forgive  me  !  "  said  she,  sobbing  ; 
"  will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  he  ;  "  anything,  everything.  But 
what  particular  thing  shall  I  forgive  first  ?  " 

"  Forgive  my  doubting  your  love  ;  and  for  believing 
that  you  cared  more  for  Mrs.  Seville  than  you  did  for 


A   DOMESTIC   STORY.  215 

me ;  and  for  watching,  in  this  disguise,  for  two  nights,  to 
see  if  you  was  n't  there,  while  her  husband  was  away, 
as  Mrs.  Screed  said  he  was." 

Poor  Tom  caved  in,  on  hearing  this,  and  he  could  n't 
trust  his  voice  to  answer  her,  but  gave  her  a  hug  that 
had  a  very  long  sentence  of  meaning  in  it,  while  a  tear 
or  two  fell  on  the  upturned  beautiful  brow  before  him, 
as  their  lips  met  in  a  forgiving  embrace.  The  sensi- 
tive reader  will  forgive  me  —  as  forgiveness  is  here  the 
theme  —  if  I  am  a  little  warm  in  my  description.  My 
old  blood  fires  up,  at  the  portrayal  of  such  a  scene, 
and  my  words  smack  a  little  of  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment. 

"  And  will  you  forgive  my  doubt  of  you  ?  "  said  he, 
at  length ;  "  I,  who  had  so  little  cause  ?  who  was  at 
Seville's  house  for  the  purpose  of  watching  you,  when 
we  met,  set  on  by  that  sneak  of  a  Screed,  who  has  been 
for  two  years  trying  to  make  me  jealous  ?  " 

"  Then  you  were,  jealous  ?  "  said  she,  archly. 

"  A  little,"  replied  he  ;  "  were  n't  you  ?  " 

"  A  little,"  she  confessed. 

"  Well,  here  I  record  my  vow,"  said  he,  kissing  her 
lips,  "  that  I  will  be  no  more  jealous  of  you,  and  may 
heaven  keep  me  loyal  to  it ! " 

"  And  here  I  register  my  vow,"  kissing  him  back 
again,  "  and  reverently  ask  for  the  same  strength." 

And  the  vows  were  religiously  kept ;  and,  though 
Clement  was  attentive,  and  courteous,  and  friendly,  and 
loving,  to  others,  she  was  not  jealous ;  and,  though  she 
was  admired,  and  courted,  and  beloved,  by  others,  he 
was  not  jealous  ;  for  they  both  knew  that,  however  the 
whole  world  might  worship  in  the  outer  temple  of  their 
hearts,  there  was  a  holy  of  holies  within  where  nono 
but  themselves  might  enter. 


216  AN  INNER  SHBINE. 


AN    INNER   SHRINE. 

EVERY  man,  who  has  a  home  as  big  as  an  ordinary 
kennel,  should  take  some  corner  of  it  for  himself,  and 
hold  it  in  possession  sacred  from  the  profaning  foot  of 
any  save  whom  he  shall  choose  to  admit.  This  is  as 
necessary  as  that  he  should  wear  his  own  clothes.  It 
should  be  a  spot  to  which  he  may  retire  and  commune 
with  himself,  which  he  cannot  do  when  agitated  and 
harassed  by  out-door  influences ;  and  a  half-hour  thus 
spent  would  be  better  for  him,  humanly  speaking,  than 
many  dollars,  if  it  may  be  measured  by  dollars.  This 
self-communion  is  not  enough  practised,  and  ourselves 
are  the  least  acquainted  with  ourselves  of  any  that  we 
profess  to  know.  Such  little  sanctum  sanctorum  is  a 
constant  incentive  to  thought.  Do  you  smoke  ?  Yes  ? 
Then  here  is  just  the  place  for  you.  Enter,  lock  your 
door,  light  your  meerschaum  or  cigar,  throw  yourself 
on  your  easy-chair  or  lounge,  and  there  think,  as  the 
smoke  curls  gracefully  over  your  head.  There  is  a 
luxury  in  thought  at  such  time.  The  demons  that  came 
in  with  you,  which  all  day  long  may  have  haunted  you 
with  insidious,  or  tantalizing,  or  perplexing  shadows, 
holding  them  before  you  like  stereoscopic  pictures,  fly 
out  with  the  gracefully  curling  smoke.  At  such  time 
your  mind,  stormy  previously,  perhaps,  has  subsided 
to  a  calm,  having  nobody  to  quarrel  with,  and  gentle 
fancies  come  in  as  Memory  summons  them,  and  delight- 
ful reverie,  the  fairy-ground  of  the  intellectual  realm, 
is  entered  upon  through  the  avenue  of  silence.  This 
is  luxury.  Dream,  now,  with  your  eyes  open.  You 
see  and  do  not  see  the  uncertain  forms  and  scenes  that 
lead  a  mystic  dance  before  you.  Eyes  long  lost,  that 
the  mould  has  claimed  for  years,  look  once  more  lov 


CONSTANT  DROPPING  WEARS.  217 

ingly  upon  you.  Smiles,  that  faded  into  thin  air,  as  the 
rose-blush  exhales,  to  form  deathless  roses  in  the  upper 
sphere,  beam  again  upon  you.  Yoices,  that  bore  love 
in  their  tones,  and  remained  not  long  enough  to  give 
love  expression,  again  are  heard  !  All  fancy,  but  yet 
real  —  impalpable,  but  more  substantial  than  the  coarse 
world  about  you.  The  half-hour's  thought  or  reverie  is 
worth  a  day,  to  your  spirit,  of  the  harsh  encounter  of 
life.  "  Enter  into  thy  closet,"  and  prayer  becomes  a 
natural  effluence,  flowing  out  of  the  very  holiness  of 
repose.  But  shut  the  door.  White  arms  and  pouting 
lips  are  inveterate  enemies  of  solitude,  and  they  are 
very  obtrusive. 


CONSTANT  DROPPING  WEARS. 

THERE'S  an  old  saying — very  old  and  trite — 

That  constant  dropping  wears  away  a  stone ; 
But  this  conclusion  of  accretive  might 

Is  not  confined  to  rugged  stones  alone. 
The  stoutest  spirit  sinks  beneath  the  word 

That  constantly  in  peevish  cadence  swells, 
And,  worn  and  weary,  it  is  wildly  stirred, 

Or,  banished  peace,  in  recklessness  rebels. 
Indifference  blunts  the  force  of  captious  flings, 

Which  all  innocuous  fail  the  heart  to  move ; 
But,  0,  how  sharp  the  cruel  barb  that  wings, 

Thrown  by  the  hand  of  those  we  fondly  love  ! 
Such  drops  as  those,  the  world  has  ever  shown, 
May,  by  their  dropping,  turn  the  heart  to  stone. 
19 


218  EMULATION. 

EMULATION. 

EMULATION  —  a  healthy  emulation  —  should  be  en- 
couraged. Generosity  should  characterize  it  always, 
and  prevent  the  mingling  with  it  of  any  bitter  rivalry, 
to  which  it  is  too  liable  when  undirected.  "  Never  do 
anything  enviable  or  malicious,  Isaac,"  said  Mrs.  Par- 
tington,  with  a  grave  expression  upon  her  face,  and 
an  iron-spoon  in  her  hand.  "  Immolation  should  be  en- 
couraged ;  but,  then,  we  should  be  always  willing  to 
make  sacraments  of  ourselves,  sometimes,  for  others ; 
for  the  world  is  wide  enough  for  everybody,  as  the  lit- 
tle boy  said,  when  he  let  the  bumblebee  go."  —  "  What 
did  he  let  him  go,  for  ?  "  said  Ike,  who  was  rather  inter- 
ested in  natural  history.  —  "  Because  he  did  n't  want  to 
nurt  the  inseck,  and  might  have  got  hurt  himself,  if 
he  'd  ha'  tried  to.  This  should  be  a  sample  for  you, 
Isaac.  Hurtin'  others,  through  a  wrong  spirit  of  immo- 
lation and  riflery,  depend  upon  it,  will  never  help  your- 
self. *  Fair  play  for  all '  is  the  mortar  for  you  to  sail 
under,  which  you  should  always  nail  to  your  kilson  as  a 
guide."  She  brought  the  spoon  down  with  emphasis, 
as  she  concluded,  seeing  that  her  young  auditor  had 
left  her,  and  was  playing  ball  with  Lion  in  the  }Tard. 
The  old  lady  was  right.  Among  the  variety  of  things 
that  awaken  emulation  among  men,  it  were  curious  to 
know  how  much  accident  has  to  do  with  its  quickening. 
The  best-laid  schemes  of  parents  become  as  naught 
when  striving  to  direct  their  children  businessward, 
when  accident  fires  some  latent  train,  the  will  is  mag- 
netized into  action,  and  a  noble  ambition  fixes  the  pur- 
pose. Of  all  the  incentives,  however,  to  emulation,  of 
which  we  have  heard,  that  which  brought  out  the  great 
Newton  was  the  queerest.  He  was  dull  at  school,  and 


PARTINGTONIAN  WISDOM.  219 

gave  no  evidence  of  superiority  until  a  boy  above 
him  in  the  class  kicked  him  in  the  stomach.  Newton 
could  n't  flog  him,  so  he  determined  to  surpass  him  in 
study,  and  beat  him  in  this  way,  which  was  done ;  and 
Sir  Isaac  became  great,  and  made  that  discovery  about 
the  apple,  which  has  been  such  a  blessing  to  the  world, 
because,  if  it  had  never  been  discovered  that  apples 
were  attracted  towards  the  earth,  we  should  have  nat- 
urally supposed  that  they  fell  from  their  own  weight, 
and  could  n't  help  it,  like  the  water  over  Niagara  Falls 


PARTINGTONIAN    WISDOM. 

IKE  is  remarkably  fond  of  turkey,  and  the  hug-me- 
close  and  the  merry-thought  he  is  as  much  attached  to, 
almost,  as  if  they  were  a  part  of  himself.  "  Bless  me  I  '• 
said  Mrs.  Partington,  at  table,  on  Thanksgiving  Day, 
looking  at  the  boy,  whose  face  was  as  greasy  as  that  of 
a  New  Zealander,  "  why,  you  look  like  a  gravy-image, 
dear,  and  your  face  shines  like  the  rory-boralius."- 
"  With  this  difference,"  said  old  Roger,  winking  at  the 
Brahmin :  "  the  aurora-borealis  appears  in  fair  weather, 
but  this  in  fowl."  The  Brahmin,  by  a  motion  of  his 
long  beard,  was  supposed  to  smile,  and  a  sound  re- 
sembling "  travels  in  Turkey  and  Grease  "  came  from 
his  lips.  But  Mrs.  Partington  saw  not  the  point.  "  You 
ehould  learn,  dear,  to  bemean  yourself  before  folks  ; 
because,  without  good  behavior,  a  man  may  be  ever 
so  imminent  for  debility,  but  will  never  be  inspected," 
She  ceased  here,  and  baled  a  spoonful  of  the  stuffing 
upon  the  juvenile's  plate,  which  he  took  very  kindly. 


220  A  CUP  OF  TEA. 


A    CUP    OF   TEA. 

A  CUP  of  tea  !  There  is  nothing  like  the  gentle  ex- 
citation of  tea.  We  quaff  the  delectable  decoction,  and 
grow  happy  amid  its  genial  vapors.  The  cloud  that 
erewhile,  perhaps,  had  brooded  over  us,  and  that  had 
hung  like  an  incubus  upon  us,  takes  wing  and  vanishes 
in  the  silvery  steam,  as  from  the  Hibernian's  mud  edi- 
fice, 

"  the  blue  devils  and  all  other  evils 

Flew  off  with  the  smoke  through  a  hole  in  the  roof." 

Tea  is  the  best  inspirer  that  ever  exerted  an  influence 
upon  men.  The  inspiration  of  strong  fluids  is  madness. 
The  brain  is  fired  through  their  infernal  agency,  and 
the  glow  of  its  evolved  genius  is  like  the  glare  of  the 
baleful  fire  of  the  pit,  that  flashes  a  while,  brilliant  and 
sparkling,  to  go  down  and  leave  darkness  behind  it. 
There  is  no  such  evil  in  Souchong,  and  in  Young 
Hyson  is  the  excess  of  poetical  fancy.  It  leads  to 
music  naturally,  and  the  voice,  the  scene"  the  lights,  run 
directly  to  immortal  song.  The  brain  dances  with 
jollity,  the  curtain  of  the  universal  stage  draws  up,  and 
the  Beyond  reveals  itself  by  rose-fire  from  the  wings. 
Ecstasy  is  installed.  Such  is  its  effect  upon  the  true 
tea-drinker  —  the  connoisseur.  There  be  bunglers, 
however,  who  should  never  touch  a  drop  better  than 
Bohea,  and  even  raspberry-leaves  are  good  enough  for 
them.  They  guzzle  down  everything  that  is  tea  with 
the  same  appetite.  They  don't  know  Orange  Pecco 
from  Gunpowder.  They  drink  unappreciatively.  Your 
true  connoisseur  regales  all  his  senses  in  his  cup  of  tea. 
He  sees  the  golden  sparkle  of  the  fluid  as  it  is  decanted 
from  the  urn  ;  he  hears  the  laughing  gurgle  that  attends 


A   CUP   OF  TEA.  221 

its  passage  to  the  cup  ;  he  tastes  the  pleasant  beverage 
with  a  gout  made  more  susceptible  by  cultivation ;  he 
inhales  the  delectable  aroma  with  infinite  delight,  and 
feels  exquisitely  the  sweet  distillation  as  it  trickles 
towards  its  destination,  and  most  sensitively  when  he 
spills  it  over  into  his  lap.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  first  dis- 
coverer of  tea  were  not  known.  The  world  should 
unite  in  a  monument  to  him.  Tea  has  found  eulogists 
in  all  languages,  and  it  would  be  a  very  curious  matter 
to  embody  the  many  things  that  have  been  said ;  but  we 
shall  do-  no  such  thing,  contenting  ourselves  with  a  few 
extracts  from  the  works  of  some  of  the  best  in  the 
English  vernacular.  First,  we  have  the  testimony  of 
him  who  spoke  of  tea  as  the  draught  which  cheered 
without  inebriating,  and  who  again  says, 

There  is  no  charm  commended  to  our  sense 
Like  that  which  meets  us  by  the  evening  board, 
Where  the  celestial  herb  distils  in  balm, 
And  falls  in  tinkling  cadence  on  the  ear  - 
A  fount  delectable — a  rill  sublime  ' 
Its  vapor  in  a  steamy  volume  rolls,. 
Kindly  and  gently,  like  a  halo,  round 
Each  waiting  head,  and  gratefully  inhaled 
It  steals  like  magic  through  the  brain, 
Lulling  to  dreamy  bliss  our  wild  unrest. 
We  sip  and  sip,  oblivious  though  the  winds 
In  wild  confusion  rage  without,  or  snows 
In  fearful  hurly  fill  the  air,  or  sleet 
Like  fairy  needles  prick  the  tender  skin, 
Content  with  tea  —  our  true  felicity  ! 
The  voice  grows  rich  in  unctuous  mellowness, 
As  brisk  Young  Hyson  lubricates  the  tongue, 
Or  Old  Souchong  exerts  its  balmy  power 
To  move  the  heart  to  gentleness  ;  and  Pecco  ! 
Orange  Pec  !  thy  fragrant  name  we  speak, 
And  memories  most  genial  in  us  rise : 
We  see  the  table  spread,  with  doughnuts  crowned, 
As  erst  it  tempting  sat,  while  beaming  eyes 
19* 


222  A    CUP   OF  TEA. 

Shine  round  it,  fraught  with  olden  kindnesses, 
And  rosy  hues  of  youth,  and  smiles  of  age  ; 
We  hear  the  cheerful  word,  the  tender  sigh,  • — 
All  floating  by  as  vapory  as  the  cloud 
That  folds  us  round  in  aromatic  bliss, 
And  in  the  plenitude  of  present  joy 
We  snap  contemptuous  nngers  at  old  Care, 
Bidding  him,  figuratively  —  go  to  gross. 

The  following,  by  Pope,  is  doubtless  familiar  to  ail : 

"  Here,  my  St.  John,  where  Hyson's  fumes  arise, 
And  Souchong's  vapors  dance  before  my  eyes, 
The  fancy  soars  in  a  voluptuous  dream, 
As  sweet  as  sugar,  and  as  rich  as  cream  — 
Roaming  through  rose-fields  of  ecstatic  scope, 
Tinging  anew  the  golden  clouds  of  hope, 
Urging  the  stagnant  blood  through  swollen  veins, 
And  waking  melody  to  bolder  strains, 
But,  misdirected,  leaves  life's  wholesome  side, 
To  mix  in  scandal's  darkly-flowing  tide. 
There  be  who  claim  for  wine  a  potent  power 
To  soothe  the  sorrows  of  the  dreary  hour, 
While  some,  again,  would  fain  exalt  the  praise 
Of  stronger  fluids  lagging  life  to  raise  ; 
But  o'er  them  all  my  task  it  e'er  shall  be 
To  sing  the  praises  of  a  cup  of  tea  " 

Dr.  Johnson's  love  of  tea  is  proverbial,  and  his  wisest 
and  wittiest  sayings,  as  recorded  by  the  faithful  Bos- 
well,  proceeded  from  the  inspiration  of  the  herb. 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS 

A  TALE  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS. 
CHAPTER   I. 

ALL  well  remember  the  disastrous  period  when  the 
Eastern  Land  Bubble  exploded ;  when  many  who 
thought  themselves  wealthy  discovered  their  mistake, 
and  became  plunged  in  irremediable  ruin,  either  as  prin- 
cipals or  as  endorsers.  It  was  a  fearful  time,  and  in  the 
change  which  occurred  in  the  fortunes  of  such  as  had 
been  living  in  luxury  was  a  depth  of  misery  that  knew 
no  relief.  Families  that  had  been  reared  in  affluence 
were  reduced  to  poverty,  and  many  fair  eyes  became 
familiar  with  tears  that  had  seldom  known  them  before, 
and  many  hearts  ached  as  clouds  of  doubt  fell  upon  a 
future  before  bright  and  joyous. 

It  was  on  a  fair  morning,  in  the  summer  of  1836,  that 
Mr.  Milling,  the  merchant,  entered  his  counting-room, 
and  sat  down  to  read  the  morning  papers.  His  brow 
was  unruffled,  and  his  spirit  was  calm.  The  money- 
market  was  tight,  but  he  had  no  notes  to  mature  that  he 
could  not  meet,  and  there 'was  paper  due  the  concern 
which  was  well  endorsed,  that  could  be  counted  on  at 
any  moment.  He  did  not  notice  that  it  was  long 
beyond  the  time  when  Mr.  Upshur,  his  partner  and  con- 
fidential clerk,  was  usually  at  his  post,  —  Upshur,  the 
careful  and  prudent  man,  whose  advice  was  always 
taken,  and  whose  shrewd  business  tact  had  done  much 

(223) 


224  CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS. 

to  secure  the  position  which  the  house  of  J.  Milling  & 
Co.  had  attained,  at  home  and  abroad ;  Upshur,  whose 
assiduity,  never  tiring,  had  won  the  praise  of  all  the 
commercial  community,  and  whose  opinion  was  sought 
by  all  in  intricate  matters  of  trade ;  Upshur,  whose 
honesty  was  as  well  established  as  his  shrewdness,  and 
whose  word  alone  had,  in  severe  times,  carried  the 
house  he  represented  through  monetary  crises. 

At  length  Mr.  Milling  looked  up,  and,  missing  his 
partner  from  his  accustomed  desk,  asked, 

"  Is  Mr.  Upshur  ill  to-day?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  replied  one  of  the  porters ;  "  he 
epoke,  last  night,  about  going  down  to  ship  the  Man- 
chesters  on  board  the  Baltimore  packet,  this  morning, 
and  he  has  n't  been  here  yet." 

Mr.  Milling  read  on,  until,  growing  impatient,  he 
said, 

"  Jones,  go  down  to  the  packet,  and  see  if  you  can 
learn  anything  of  Mr.  Upshur.  Something  may  have 
happened  to  him." 

The  young  man  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  returned, 
soon  after,  bringing  the  intelligence  that  Mr.  Upshur 
had  not  been  at  the  wharf  all  the  morning,  and  that, 
calling  at  his  boarding-house  on  the  way  back  to  the 
store,  he  had  been  informed  that  Mr.  Upshur  had  not 
been  home  during  the  entire  night. 

Mr.  Milling  was  alarmed,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
Eleven  o'clock !  He  walked  the  floor,  and  appeared 
troubled.  There  was  a  cloud  on  his  heart  that  he  could 
not  dispel,  which  reflected  upon  his  brow,  and  flitted 
across  it  like  a  shadow  above  a  meadow.  A  vague  and 
undefined  sense  of  impending  trouble  took  possession 
of  him,  and  a  boding  of  gloom,  as  if  a  dark  spirit  bre»*hed 
in  his  ear,  made  him  thrill  to  his  inmost  core. 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS.        225 

"  Mr.  Milling  seems  troubled,"  said  Mr.  Partelot,  the 
clerk  who  stood  next  in  the  rank  of  promotion,  in  the 
event  of  Upshur's  disappearance ;  "  wonder  what 's  be- 
come of  Upshur?" 

"  Don't  know,  and  don't  care,"  was  the  response  from 
the  surly-spoken  and  rough-looking  Mr.  Savage,  who 
occupied  a  position  by  his  side. 

Mr.  Partelot  gave  his  companion  a  reproachful  look, 
and  kept  on  with  his  writing  and  his  secret  thoughts, 
occasionally  glancing  from  the  corner  of  his  eyes  at 
Mr.  Milling,  who  was  seen,  through  the  glass-door  of  the 
little  back  counting-room,  pacing  backwards  and  for- 
wards with  an  anxious  step. 

"  Mr.  Partelot,"  said  Mr.  Milling,  opening  the  door, 
"  will  you  step  in  here  for  a  moment  ?  " 

Mr.  Partelot  obeyed,  and  when  the  door  was  closed 
behind  him,  Mr.  Milling  said, 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Upshur's  disappear- 
ance ?  " 

"  I  trust  he  may  be  detained  by  something  which  can 
be  accounted  for  satisfactorily,"  said  Mr.  Partelot. 

"  I  hope  he  may ;  but  I  want  you  to  examine  his 
books,  and  see  that  everything  is  right.  I  fear  that  he 
has  left  us  clandestinely,  though  it  is  but  a  suspicion  as 
yet.  Read  this  note.  It  was  received  a  year  ago,  and 
has  lain  in  my  desk  ever  since." 

Mr.  Partelot  read: 

"  MR.  MILLING  :  Be  wary  of  Upshur.  A  pitcher  that 
goes  too  often  to  the  well  may  come  back  broken. 

"  Yours,  COMMERCE." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Partelot,  "  did  you  pay  any  at- 

15 


226  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS. 

*tention  to  the  note  ?  Did  you  detect  any  irregularity 
in  Mr.  Upshur  ?  " 

"  Not  the  least,"  was  the  reply ;  "  I  have  ever  ob- 
served the  same  prudence  and  care,  and  never  have 
wavered  in  my  confidence  in  his  integrity.  And  even 
now  I  scarcely  know  what  leads  me  to  suspect,  but 
wish  you  to  run  over  his  books,  and  satisfy  me  that  all 
is  right." 

Mr.  Partelot  promised  so  to  do,  and  subsequently  re- 
ported that  he  could  detect  nothing  which  betokened 
any  carelessness  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Upshur ;  that  all 
appeared  fair,  straight,  and  methodical ;  and  the  mys- 
tery was  left  to  be  unravelled  by  time. 

"  The  old  man  seems  queer  enough,"  said  Partelot  to 
Savage,  on  his  return  to  his  desk,  "  about  Upshur;  and 
it  is  rather  strange  his  disappearing  so,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Don't  bother,"  said  Savage,  who  was  engaged  in 
casting  up  a  column  of  figures. 

"  Do  you  know,  Savage,"  continued  Partelot,  "  that 
the  old  man  suspects  Upshur  ?  " 

"  Of  what  ?  "  asked  Savage,  abruptly,  looking  up. 

"  Twenty,  and  five  are  twenty-five,  and  seven  are 
thirty-two,"  repeated  Partelot,  as  if  engaged  in  reckon- 
ing, on  seeing  Mr.  Milling  close  by  his  side. 

"  Partelot,"  said  his  employer,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  shall 
trust  to  your  prudence.  Make  no  talk  about  what  has 
transpired.  It  may  be  that  Mr.  Upshur  will  return,  and 
give  satisfactory  reasons  for  his  absence.  Say  nothing 
about  the  suspicion  I  have  expressed." 

Mr.  Milling  left  his  counting-room,  and  his  two  post- 
ing clerks  at  their  books,  while  the  great  business  of 
selling  was  going  on  in  the  outer  store,  and  went  out 
upon  'change.  Change  !  a  spot  where  the  sensitive 
spirit  can  detect  a  metallic  ring  in  the  contact  of 


CHRISTMAS   HEAETHS   A!N7D   HEARTS.  227 

sharpened  wits,  and  in  the  whisper  of  "  exchange  "  the 
rustle  of  bank-bills.  Change  I  where  a  man  coins  his 
blood  for  money,  and  becomes  mammoned  in  the  godless 
whirl  of  speculation.  Change  I  through  whose  muta- 
tions the  lord  of  wealth  to-day  becomes  the  slave  of 
wealth  to-morrow.  And  here,  for  a  while,  Mr.  Milling 
partially  forgot  his  anxiety,  although  occasionally  the 
thought  of  his  missing  partner,  and  the  uneasy  sensation 
before  experienced,  would  obtrude  themselves,  in  des- 
pite of  all  he  could  do.  Even  the  excitement  of  a  rise 
in  flour  failed  to  move  him,  though  he  had  thousands  of 
barrels  upon  his  hands  ;  even  the  failure  of  a  firm  that 
owed  his  house  thousands  of  dollars  agitated  him  not. 
The  one  idea  at  last  took  entire  possession  of  him.  He 
walked  the  pave  with  an  abstracted  air,  and  men  pointed 
at  him  and  spoke  in  whispers  as  they  passed  him. 

He  was  at  last  aroused  by  one  of  his  clerks,  who 
touched  his  arm,  and  said  his  attendance  was  immedi- 
ately wanted  at  the  store. 

"  Has  Mr.  Upshur  returned  ? "  he  inquired  of  the 
messenger. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Any  tidings  of  him?  " 

"  Can't  say,  sir,  but  Mr.  Partelot  is  in  trouble  about 
something." 

Mr.  Milling  left  the  pave  hastily,  and  walked  by  the 
shortest  path  to  his  store.  He  saw  through  the  window, 
before  he  entered,  that  Mr.  Partelot  looked  much  dis- 
turbed; and  that  a  stranger  was  conversing  with  him. 

"  Glad  you  have  come,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Partelot,  as  he 
entered  the  counting-room  door ;  "  we  have  trace  of 
Upshur,  sir."  There  was,  however,  no  joy  in  his  tone, 
even  though  he  said  he  was  glad. 


228  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  Mr.  Milling,  his  voice  betraying 
the  deepest  anxiety  ;  "  what  trace  ?  " 

"Here,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  placing  in  his  hands  a 
number  of  papers ;  "  this,  I  think,  explains  his  absence." 

Mr.  Milling  glanced  at  their  purport.  His  brain 
whirled  with  the  intensity  of  his  feeling,  as  he  read.  He 
seized  the  back  of  a  chair  to  support  himself,  the  while 
his  form  trembled  with  agitation. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  obligations  —  J.  Milling 
&  Co.  —  eastern  lands  !  The  firm  never  had  a  dollar  in 
that  infernal  bubble.  What  means  this  ?  " 

"  This  gentleman  can  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Partelot,  turn- 
ing to  the  stranger.  "  The  papers  are  made  out  in  his 
name.  Mr.  Barrus." 

"  The  same,  at  your  service,  sir,"  said  the  stranger, 
stepping  forward.  "  Barrus,  of  the  firm  of  Barrus  & 
Emms,  Bangor,  commissioners.  These  notes  are  the  first 
of  a  series  made  by  J.  Upshur,  for  Milling  &  Co.,  in 
consideration  of  certain  lands  lying  in  Maine,  purchased 
by  him.  These  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  have  ma- 
tured. The  balance  to  be  paid  monthly." 

"  Perfidious  !  damnable  !  "  cried  Mr.  Milling,  grinding 
his  teeth  with  rage.  "  This  explains  the  absence  of  Up- 
shur!" He  fell  into  his  chair,  as  he  spoke,  and  groaned 
in  spirit.  Starting  to  his  feety  he  demanded  of  the 
stranger  the  full  amount  of  the  notes  he  held. 

"  One  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  dollars,"  was  the 
reply,  "  by  our  concern:  There  are  other  notes  held  by 
other  parties." 

"  Ruined  1  ruined  !  "  said  Mr.  Milling,  "  irredeemably 
mined  by  that  rascal,  whose  friend  I  have  been  —  whose 
baseness  has  been  returned  for  my  constant  kindness  ! 
But  I  deserve  it  for  not  regarding  the  caution  I  re- 
ceived." 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS.  229 

"  Here  is  a  letter,  sir,"  said  the  porter,  handing  a  pa- 
per to  Mr.  Milling.  He  took  it  in  his  trembling  fingers, 
and  recognized  the  hand-writing  of  Upshur.  He  read 
it  to  himself,  and  then  handed  it  to  Mr.  Partelot.  The 
letter  ran  as  follows : 

"  MR.  MILLING.  —  Sir :  You  may  deem  me  a  scoun 
drel ;  but  I  am  to  be  pitied.  I  have  been  led  into  the 
temptation  of  speculation,  have  compromised  our  firm 
in  its  prosecution,  and  have  fled,  like  Cain,  with  the 
brand  of  disgrace  on  my  name.  But,  while  thus  leaving 
like  a  thief,  I  solemnly  promise  that  my  future  shall  be 
devoted  to  a  reparation  of  the  trouble  I  have  caused. 
You  shall  not  hear  from  me  until  I  am  able  to  wipe  the 
stain  from  the  name  of  yours,  most  ungratefully, 

"JOHN  UPSHUR." 

"  A  dark  affair,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Partelot,  handing  back 
the  letter. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Barrus,  as  he  found  attention  divert- 
ed from  himself,  "  as  we  understand  each  other,  I  will 
leave  you,  and  hope  this  affair  will  all  be  settled  satis- 
factorily. There  's  no  use  in  worrying  about  it,  anyhow, 
and  I  guess  it  '11  all  come  out  bright." 

With  this  sublimely  philosophical  remark,  Mr.  Barrus 
left  the  counting-room  of  Milling  &  Co.,  his  mind  full  of 
visions  of  islands  of  dollars  rising  from  submerged 
lands,  while  all  around  them  swam  drowning  men,  with 
haggard  looks,  grasping  at  straws  as  they  sank  beneath 
the  waves. 

Mr.  Milling  sat  late  conferring  with  Mr.  Partelot  with 
regard  to  the  course  to  be  pursued  in  the  strait,  and  the 
shadows  of  evening  fell  upon  the   street  before   the 
merchant  left  his  counting-room  for  home. 
20 


230  CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND   HEART8. 

CHAPTER    II. 
THE   MERCHANT'S    HOME. 

MR.  MILLING  occupied  the  finest  house  in  Chestnut- 
square.  It  was  built  at  a  time  when  land  was  plenty, 
and  men  had  expansive  ideas  of  room  and  comfort.  The 
rooms  were  spacious  and  magnificent.  Large  staircases 
led  from  broad  entries  to  broad  galleries  above,  upon 
which  a  twilight  gloom  was  shed  from  a  Gothic  window 
over  the  entrance.  Heavily  corniced  and  massively  fin- 
ished in  all  particulars,  the  house  was  a  fitting  residence 
for  a  merchant  prince.  Herein  luxury  had  expended 
its  utmost  art,  aided  by  good  taste  and  abundant  means. 
The  grounds  without  were  in  keeping  with  the  elegance 
within,  and  everything  bespoke  the  abode  of  wealth  and 
ease. 

Mr.  Milling  was  happy  in  his  domestic  relations.  He 
had  married  his  wife  when  he  was  a  clerk  with  a  salary, 
and  had  arisen  to  his  present  eminence  in  the  commer- 
cial world  with  much  of  the  freshness  of  feeling  which 
had  marked  his  beginning.  He  was  a  domestic  man,  and 
delighted  in  the  society  of  his  wife  and  two  daugh- 
ters. The  eldest,  Matilda,  was  a  tall,  imperial-look- 
ing, and  elegant  girl,  of  some  twenty  years  —  hand- 
some, but  proud ;  the  youngest  was  a  fair  and  gentle 
creature  of  ten,  delicate  as  a  snowdrop,  and  almost 
as  frail.  A  sickly  infancy  had  left  her  an  object  of 
deep  solicitude,  and  care  was  taken  that  naught  but 
the  most  tender  attention  should  be  paid  her.  She  was 
kept  free  from  the  restraints  of  study,  and  at  the  age  of 
ten  was  as  artless  and  undeveloped  a  little  creature, 
intellectually,  as  ever  was  made  the  subject  of  culture. 
But  she  had  grown  in  spirit.  The  angelic  wealth  of 
her  nature  had  developed  in  flowers  of  soul  and  made 


CHRISTMAS  HEAETHS  AND   HEARTS.  231 

her  life  one  constant  joy.  There  was  none  of  the  way- 
wardness of  childhood  in  her  seeming,  and  her  blue  eyes 
'were  ever  lustrous  with  tender  womanly  light.  There 
was  a  marked  contrast  between  Lily  and  her  sister — as 
wide  a  difference  as  between  their  ages.  The  one  was 
admired  for  her  beauty  of  person  and  accomplishments, 
the  other  was  loved  for  her  sweetness  of  disposition 
and  unselfishness.  There  was  but  little  external  sym- 
pathy between  the  sisters,  but  deep  in  their  natures  was 
a  bond  which  knit  them  closely  together,  exhibited  out- 
wardly in  gentle  authority  on  the  one  part,  and  passive 
obedience  on  the  other. 

Mr.  Milling  had  always  acted  upon  the  belief  that  the 
best  way  to  make  sure  of  the  moral  worth  of  his  clerks 
was  to  encourage  intimacy  between  them  and  himself, 
and,  through  a  close  acquaintance  with  them,  obtain  an 
insight  into  their  characters,  and  learn  the  motives  that 
operated  to  control  their  conduct.  He  had  thus  opened 
his  doors  to  them  on  all  occasions,  made  them  welcome 
to  his  fireside,  and  given  them  the  assurance  that  he  was 
their  friend. 

John  Upshur  had  been  specially  favored.  Possessed 
of  a  very  prepossessing  appearance,  from  the  first  Mr. 
Milling  had  been  struck  by  him.  Acquaintance  had 
proved  him  intelligent,  high-minded,  and  faithful.  From 
a  boy  in  the  store,  he  had  risen,  step  by  step,  through 
the  encouragement  of  his  employer,  until  he  had  be- 
come confidential  clerk  and  junior  partner  in  the  house 
of  Milling  &  Co.,  with  an  irreproachable  reputation  as 
regarded  honesty,  and  a  character  for  business  capacity 
and  shrewdness  that  was  not  to  be  excelled. 

Eugene  Partelot  and  George  Savage,  the  two  clerks 
previously  introduced  to  the  reader,  had  likewise  en- 
joyed the  almost  parental  regard  of  Mr.  Milling.  Mr. 


232  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

Upshur,  however,  had  come  before  them.  His  light  was 
at  its  zenith,  and  the  beams  of  their  small  lanterns  were 
ineffectual  in  its  superior  blaze,  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Ma- 
tilda, who  was  from  the  first  specially  significant  in  her 
attentions  to  the  polite  and  handsome  clerk,  until,  as  his 
position  enlarged  in  the  firm  of  J.  Milling,  and  enabled 
him  to  be  known  as  the  Co.  that  was  added  to  the  sign 
on  the  first  of  January  previous,  he  became  the  accepted 
lover  of  the  young  lady,  and  the  particular  friend  of 
the  family. 

There  was  a  wide  difference  between  Eugene  Partelot 
and  George  Savage.  The  former  possessed  great  suav- 
ity of  manner,  paid  much  regard  to  personal  appear- 
ance, was  punctilious  in  all  his  habits,  and  possessed  a 
full  consciousness  of  his  own  transcendent  merits.  He 
was  called  by  all  a  good  fellow,  and  his  society  was 
sought  on  all  occasions.  His  presence  gave  life  to  a 
party,  his  figure  in  a  ball-room  was  indispensable,  and 
there  was  not  a  wedding  or  a  party  in  the  neighborhood 
to  which  he  was  not  invited.  With  George  Savage  it 
was  entirely  the  reverse.  His  appearance  was  uncouth 
and  careless,  his  voice  rough  and  uncourteous,  his  man- 
ner abrupt  and  startling.  A  thorough  conviction  of  his 
honesty  alone  made  him  tolerable  to  Mr.  Milling,  who 
never  received  him  at  his  house  with  the  cordiality  that 
he  extended  to  the  other,  it  being  evident,  although 
he  used  him  well,  that  his  companion  was  the  favor- 
ite. He  would  often  find  himself  left  alone  by  his  em- 
ployer and  more  favored  associate,  to  amuse  himself  as 
best  he  might.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions,  while 
sitting  in  moody  discontent  in  Mr.  Milling's  library,  that 
the  door  opened,  and  little  Lily  came  tripping  in.  He 
had  seen  her  frequently  before,  but  had  never  spoken  to 
her,  deeming  that  she  avoided  him.  Now  she  broke 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS.        233 

upon  his  darkness  of  spirit  like  a  light  from  the  spheres. 
She  approached  where  he  sat,  and  reached  out  her  hand 
to  him,  with  a  smile,  saying, 

"  You  are  all  alone,  Mr.  Savage  ?  "  The  tone  was  so 
kind,  that  the  Savage  was  melted.  He  took  her  hand, 
saying,  as  gently  as  he  could, 

"  No,  Miss,  they  have  all  left  me  for  more  agreeable 
company." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  she,  "  I  will  take  their  place,  and 
amuse  you  the  best  I  can.  Shall  I  sing  for  you  ?  " 

Savage  replied  that  he  should  be  delighted  to  hear 
her,  and  she  sang  for  him  several  little  airs  that  she  had 
learned,  in  a  voice  so  sweet  and  tender,  and  prattled  on 
so  prettily,  that  an  hour  passed  unheeded  away,  and  the 
absence  of  all  the  rest  of  the  household  was  forgotten. 
When  they  returned  they  found  the  little  prattler  en- 
gaged in  her  task  of  amusing.  Her  sister  informed  her 
that  she  must  not  come  down  when  company  was  in  the 
house  unless  she  was  invited,  and  George  Savage  saw 
her  no  more  on  any  of  his  visits.  At  last  he  discontin- 
ued them  altogether,  and  no  question  was  asked  why 
he  did  so. 

Mr.  Milling's  family  were  very  uneasy  concerning  him 
on  the  day  named  at  the  outset  of  our  story.  The  din- 
ner was  left  untasted,  as  hour  after  hour  passed.  He 
had  often  staid  away,  detained  by  important  business, 
but  had  always  sent  a  message  to  inform  his  family, 
in  order  to  remove  their  uneasiness.  His  present  omis- 
sion to  do  so  was  inexplicable.  At  last,  at  the  hour 
when  night  struggles  with  day,  his  step  was  heard  upon 
the  pavement,  but  it  seemed  weary  and  slow,  his  hand 
upon  the  door  was  less  active  than  usual,  and  the  lock 
gave  not  the  energetic  click  as  was  wont,  denoting  by 
its  sound  the  happiness  of  the  master  at  returning.  His 
20* 


234  CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS   AND  HEARTS. 

care-marked  brow  was  seen  as  he  entered,  and  loving 
voices  inquired  if  he  were  ill.  Lily's  arms  clasped  hia 
neck  in  a  fond  embrace,  and  her  head  bowed  upon  his 
breast  in  the  mute  expression  of  her  heart  ;s  full  love. 

"  I  am  not  ill,"  he  replied  to  their  inquiries ;  "  but  I  am 
sad.  I  may  tell  you  at  once  my  trouble.  Treachery 
and  fraud  have  done  their  worst  with  me,  and  I  am 
ruined ! " 

"  Ruined ! "  said  Mrs.  Milling,  in  a  voice  of  extreme 
dismay,  which  was  echoed  by  Miss  Matilda.  "Ruined  !" 

Lily  trembled,  and  nestled  closer  to  her  father's  heart. 
She  felt  his  arms  tighten  about  her,  and  a  fervent  kiss 
impressed  upon  her  curls. 

"  By  whom  ?  "  was  the  question  that  followed. 

"  By  one  whom  we  have  all  trusted  too  much,  and 
who  has  proved  a  villain." 

"  Savage  ?  "  —  "  Partelot  ?  "  were  the  inquiries  that 
broke  upon  him  from  the  astonished  women. 

"  No  ! "  said  he,  with  a  groan,  "  Upshur  ! " 

Miss  Matilda,  who  was  watching  his  lips  for  the  name, 
with  eager  curiosity,  with  a  shriek  fell  upon  the  floor, 
as  he  uttered  the  word  that  crushed  her  hopes  ;  and  Mrs. 
Milling,  seemingly  struck  speechless  with  astonishment, 
turned  her  attention  to  her  fallen  daughter,  who,  by  the 
aid  of  a  servant,  was  carried  to  her  chamber,  insensible. 

Mr.  Milling  and  Lily  sat  alone.  She  had  started  from 
his  arms  at  the  fall  of  her  sister,  but  had  turned  to  her 
father  again,  as  the  rest  left  the  room.  She  got  upon 
his  knee,  took  his  hands  from  his  face,  and  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  into  his  eyes. 

"  Father  !  "  said  she,  at  last,  with  startling  energy  for 
her,  "  love  is  left  us.  God  gives  it  to  the  poor,  instead 
of  wealth  ;  and,  0,  how  they  love  one  another  who  are 
bound  together  by  the  ties  of  a  common  necessity  ! " 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS.  235 

He  started,  while  a  feeling  of  awe  crept  over  him, 
as  he  looked  upon  her  pale  face,  and  her  large,  spirit- 
ual eyes,  beaming  with  a  lustre  he  had  seldom  before 
iioticed. 

"  And  who  told  you  this  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  held  her 
from  him,  and  continued  his  gaze  upon  her. 

"  There  is  something  that  comes  from  there,"  replied 
she,  pointing  upward,  solemnly,  "that  tells  me  many 
things  I  never  dare  speak  to  mortal  ears  —  that  I 
dream  of  and  think  of  when  others  are  at  rest.  It  tells 
me  of  happiness  beyond  the  present,  and  that,  though 
all  earthly  hopes  may  perish,  and  fortune  fade  away, 
the  true  source  of  happiness  is  yet  left  us  in  our  loving 
hearts  —  away  down  below,  where  the  stprms  of  the 
world  cannot  come." 

Mr.  Milling  bowed  down  his  head  before  his  child, 
and  caught  from  her  words  a  new  hope,  as  if  an  angel 
had  spoken. 

His  wife  returned  to  his  side ;  and,  at  her  approach; 
Lily  kissed  her  father's  heated  brow  and  retired,  turn- 
ing upon  him  her  deep,  intense  glance,  full  of  love  and 
pity,  as  she  disappeared. 

They  sat  long  together  in  conference,  the  merchant 
and  his  wife ;  for  she  was  a  woman  who  mingled  no 
reproaches  or  invidious  reflections  in  her  counsel,  and 
was  an  intelligent  adviser  in  matters  requiring  pru- 
dence of  judgment,  and  wisdom  of  forethought.  She 
was  a  jewel  to  her  husband,  fully  realizing  the  scriptural 
standard  —  a  crown  !  The  result  of  their  deliberation 
was  that,  if  the  matter  shouid  terminate  as  badly  as  was 
feared,  everything  should  be  given  up  to  the  creditors  ; 
that,  as  honesty  had  been  the  corner-stone  of  the  busi- 
ness of  J.  Milling  &  Co.,  it  should  not  be  disgraced  bj 
a  dishonest  termination. 


236  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS. 

The  next  day  the  creditors  of  the  firm  were  sura* 
moned  to  a  meeting,  and  its  affairs  laid  before  them. 
Mr.  Barrus,  of  the  house  of  Barrus  <£  Emms,  Bangor, 
was  present  with  his  claims,  the  large  amount  of  which 
it  was  found  impossible  to  meet ;  and,  as  there  were 
claims  supposed  to  be  held  by  other  parties,  as  Mr.  Bar- 
rus had  suggested,  the  result  was  that  the  house  of  J. 
Milling  &  Co.  failed,  and  the  property  was  placed  in  the 
hands  of  assignees  for  settlement.  Before  Christmas 
the  names  of  Partelot  &  Savage  occupied  the  position 
of  the  once  familiar  name,  they  having  purchased  the 
business  of  the  assignees,  by  the  advice  of  Mr.  Milling. 

It  was  a  town  talk  for  many  days  ;  but,  after  a  while, 
the  waters  of  silence  closed  over  the  affair,  as  the  waves 
enfold  themselves  over  the  scene  where  some  gallant 
bark  has  gone  down. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE   GLOOMY   CHBISTMA8. 

THE  large  house  that  had  been  the  home  of  Mr.  Milling 
was  now  the  home  of  another,  and  its  former  occupants, 
who  had  passed  so  many  pleasant  years  beneath  its  roof, 
whose  hearts  were  woven  with  it,  as  though  it  were  a 
part  of  themselves,  had  removed  to  other  quarters,  more 
in  keeping  with  their  present  circumstances.  But  a 
small  remnant  of  his  former  wealth  remained  to  Mr.  Mil- 
ling. His  fortune  had  crumbled  beneath  him  like  a  shelf 
of  sand,  and  he  had  gone  down  to  a  depth  of  ruin  cor- 
responding with  his  former  exaltation.  His  integrity 
was  unimpaired  in  the  estimation  of  those  who  best 
knew  him  ;  but  the  story  gained  circulation  that  he  had 
been  a  party  in  the  transaction  that  had  ruined  his 
house,  and  his  presence  on  'change  was  marked  by  a 
coldness  on  the  part  of  many  with  whom  he  had  for- 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS.  237 

merly  been  on  the  most  intimate  terms.  His  heart  had 
sunk  with  the  first  blow  ;  but  the  discovery  of  his 
waning  credit  gave  him  the  most  pain.  Where  the 
stories  originated,  it  was  not  known.  They  could  not 
be  traced  to  any  reliable  source,  and  worked  with  subtle 
and  secret  influence,  until,  unable  to  withstand  the  look 
of  suspicion  that  was  cast  upon  him,  he  left  the  scene 
of  his  former  labors,  a  broken  man.  His  mind  was 
gloomy,  almost  morose,  and  even  his  family  failed  to 
awaken  him  to  anything  like  his  former  cheerfulness. 
The  -feeling  that  was  gnawing  at  his  heart  wore  upon 
his  frame,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  was  sinking  be- 
neath the  sorrow  that  was  preying  upon  him. 

His  wife  endeavored  by  every  means  in  her  power  to 
cheer  him.  Her  words,  however,  were  mechanical  and 
worldly-wise,  and  had  little  effect.  His  oldest  daughter 
said  nothing.  Her  high  spirit  and  pride  sustained  her 
in  her  new  position.  She  had  withdrawn  from  a  society 
she  still  could  have  graced,  from  a  sense  of  her  fallen 
fortunes,  and  a  determination  to  avoid  all  association 
that  would  remind  her  of  them.  She  made  no  com- 
plaint ;  but  her  heart  was  deeply  touched  by  her  fath- 
er's distress,  surpassing  even  the  keen  sensibility  felt  at 
her  lover's  desertion  —  for  that  was  subdued  by  the 
pride  that  filled  her  and  gave  her  strength. 

Much  talk  to  a  grieving  heart  is  an  addition  to  its 
affliction.  Even  words  of  kindness  are  of  non-effect. 
A  tear,  shed  in  sympathy,  is  better  to  the  one  who 
grieves  than  a  whole  vocabulary  of  terms.  So  felt  Mr. 
Milling.  The  words  his  wife  spoke  were  addressed  to 
his  ambition,  mixed,  occasionally,  with  half  reproaches, 
that  added  bitterness  to  his  despondency.  There  was 
but  one  comfort  for  him.  His  little  Lily  was  ever  by 
nis  side,  by  her  attentions  endeavoring  to  soothe  him ; 


238  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

her  face  not  gloomy  with  the  clouds  of  disappointment, 
but  radiant  with  love  and  faith.  Her  young  eye  saw 
beyond  the  present  of  earthly  trial,  and  knew  that 
through  affliction  alone  could  be  won  the  crown  of  the 
iiiithful.  Her  voice  was  music  to  him,  and  when  by  her 
side  his  heart  beat  with  a  lighter  pulsation.  He  was 
stricken  so  deeply,  however,  that  eveh  her  ministration^ 
could  not  bear  him  wholly  up.  He  felt  that  he  was  done 
for  earth,  and  that  the  world  would  be  better  to  be  rid 
of  him  —  the  hallucination  of  a  morbid  fancy.  The  feel- 
ing at  length,  by  insidious  advances,  gained  entire  hold 
upon  him ;  his  body  gave  way  before  it,  and  he  was 
brought  at  last  to  a  condition  compelling  him  to  take 
to  his  bed.  The  kindness  of  old  friends — among  whom 
were  his  successors,  Partelot  and  Savage  —  failed  to 
revive  him,  the  assiduity  of  those  around  him  was  inef- 
fective, and  Lily's  face  and  Lily's  voice  alone  gave  him 
pleasure.  It  seemed  now  to  his  distempered  fancy  like 
the  voice  of  one  long  gone  before  —  a  sister  of  his 
early  years  —  and  her  eyes  appeared  to  reflect  the 
glories  of  the  world  to  which  he  was  hastening.  There 
were  no  tears  wetting  the  face  he  saw,  —  the  little  face 
that  bent  over  him,  —  but  there  was  a  sublime  expres- 
sion resting  there,  as  though  she  were  an  angel  waiting 
patiently  by  the  gates  of  time,  to  bear  his  soul  to  its 
immortal  home  —  seeing  the  end  of  human  woe  from 
the  beginning,  and  its  need  in  the  scheme  of  man's 
progression. 

It  was  Christmas,  and  the  usual  hilarity  attending  the 
day  was  observed.  Parties  were  given  in  all  directions, 
and  the  fires  of  the  genial  season  burned  brightly.  But 
there  was  one  home,  that  was  wont  to  observe  its  fes- 
tivities, now  silent.  Mr.  Milling  was  dying  !  The  angel 
had  entered  his  abode,  and  waited  for  a  little  while  ere 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS.  239 

he  should  clip  the  slender  thread  that  bound  him  to  life. 
His  family  ranged  around  his  bed  —  Lily,  with  her 
solemn  eyes,  gazing  upon  him  with  an  almost  super- 
human earnestness  and  tenderness.  Suddenly,  the  dying 
man  revived  from  a  stupor  in  which  he  had  long  lain. 
He  turned  his  gaze  with  a  meaningless  expression  upon 
those  who  surrounded  his  bed,  until  it  rested  upon  Lily. 
His  face  brightened,  and,  seizing  her  hand  with  sudden 
ecstasy,  he  cried,  "  Welcome,  sister  !  I  am  ready."  His 
hand  fell  upon  the  coverlet,  and  Mr.  Milling  was  no 
more. 

The  wife  and  eldest  daughter  were  borne  from  the 
chamber.  The  earthly  tie  —  the  whole  that  they  knew 
—  was  sundered,  and  the  mortal  mourned  for  mortality, 
the  earth  for  the  earthly.  Lily,  the  delicate  and  beauti- 
ful, stood  gazing  calmly  upon  the  wreck  before  her. 
The  brightness  of  heaven  was  around  her  brow,  and 
her  face  assumed  the  soft  expression  of  an  £,ngel. 
Serene  and  calm  she  stood  gazing  down  upon  the  im- 
movable features  ;  there  was  to  her  no  division  of  the 
tender  chord  that  had  bound  them — soul  had  been  knit 
to  soul,  and  in  the  mortal  dissolution  she  felt  that  the 
sweet  compact  had  not  been  interrupted.  In  this  con- 
sciousness there  was  no  room  for  terror  or  despair. 
Something  like  a  tear  trembled  in  her  eye  ;  but  there 
was  a  joy  in  it  that  gave  it  a  glory  like  a  star,  as  passed 
before  her  young  vision  the  remembered  kindness  and 
devotion  of  the  one  who  lay  there  still  and  cold.  But 
the  triumph  that  burned  in  her  expression  dried  up  the 
tear,  as  the  sun  dries  up  the  dew  that  the  night,  in  its 
darkness,  has  wept. 

She  passed  from  the  chamber  to  make  way  for  those 
whose  duty  it  was  to  prepare  the  body  for  sepulture; 
and  proceeded  to  her  mother's  room  to  endeavor,  by  her 


240  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

attentions,  to  soothe  her  grief.  This  was  an  impossible 
task.  Outward  comfort  in  such  a  crisis  is  unavailing ; 
and,  though  ministerial  consolation  was  tendered,  the 
blackness  of  darkness  rested  over  the  tomb,  unpen- 
etrated  by  a  hopeful  ray.  They  had  been  of  the  world's 
people,  and  their  spiritual  light  was  obscured  by  the 
mist  of  materialism ;  and  the  ministers,  themselves  as 
spiritually  dull,  knew  no  solace  beyond  the  mere  word 
of  hope  —  no  living  faith,  no  sweet  trust  in  the  future 
of  life  and  love. 

Mr.  Milling  was  buried  with  becoming  honors.  Many 
of  his  old  friends  attended  his  funeral,  and  paid  him  the 
respect,  as  they  rode  to  his  grave,  of  talking  over  again 
the  transaction  by  which  he  was  ruined,  the  slanders 
that  had  followed  it,  the  credit  of  his  successors,  and 
the  probable  condition  of  his  family,  ending  with  pro- 
found expressions  of  regret  for  the  unpleasant  affair, 
and  the  melancholy  circumstances  in  which  his  family 
had  been  left.  The  cheap  sympathy  was  all  expended, 
and  the  price  of  stocks  mingled  with  the  regretful 
words  awakened  by  the  demise  of  the  unfortunate 
merchant. 

When  the  melancholy  cortege  returned  to  the  house, 
Mr.  Partelot  stood  by  the  door  of  the  carriage  contain- 
ing the  family,  and  handed  them  out.  His  eyes  were 
red  with  weeping,  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he  took 
the  hand  of  Matilda  Milling  within  his  own.  Following 
them  into  the  house,  he  proffered  his  condolence  with 
them  in  their  loss,  and  assured  them  of  his  life-long  de- 
votion to  their  interest,  from  a  sense  of  gratitude  to 
Mr.  Milling,  and  a  personal  regard  for  themselves.  All 
that  he  knew  of  prosperity,  he  said,  had  been  attained 
through  his  beloved  employer,  and  he  could  not  do 
enough  in  return  for  such  kindness.  His  words  were 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND    HEARTS.  241 

full  of  sweetness,  and  fell  upon  the  stricken  hearts  of 
the  family  like  the  small  rain  upon  thirsty  ground,  and 
grief  broke  out  anew  as  he  spoke.  When  he  left,  it 
seemed  to  the  mother  and  eldest  daughter  that  some 
exalted  being  from  another  sphere  had  paid  them  a  visit 
with  the  special  object  of  comforting  them.  Lily  had 
heard  him  not.  Her  eyes  were  directed  towards  the 
western  sky,  glowing  with  the  brightness  of  wintry  sun- 
set,  and  were  drinking  in  the  inspiration  of  the  glory 
that  rested  there,  filling  her  with  peace  and  joy. 

Turning  to  her  mother,  she  threw  her  arms  about  her 
neck,  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Mother ! "  said  she,  "  is  it  not  selfish  to  cry  for  those 
who  have  left  us  ?  Does  n't  my  father  still  live  —  more 
loving  and  more  beautiful  than  before  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then,  why  mourn  ?  We  are  told  to  rejoice  with 
those  that  rejoice  ;  and,  if  my  father  is  living,  should 
we  not  rejoice  that  it  is  so  ?  His  cares  and  pains  are 
all  over  for  earth,  unless,  seeing  the  grief  which  en- 
shrouds us,  he  feels  sad  at  our  weakness.  0,  mother,  I 
am  but  a  simple  child,  and  can  teach  you  nothing ;  but 
my  spirit  feels  much.  It  goes  with  yonder  sinking  sun 
to  its  resting-place,  and  sees  a  glorious  to-morrow  fol- 
lowing the  night  that  intervenes ;  so  the  resurrection 
follows  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  as  you  have  told  me. 
Be  comforted,  my  mother." 

"  Child,  you  do  not  know  what  you  have  lost ! "  said 
the  poor  woman.  "  It  does  me  good  to  nurse  my  grief." 
She  indulged  in  a  fresh  paroxysm,  and  Lily  left  her 
to  time  and  self-pride  to  work  the  peace  that  she  had 
failed  to  implant. 

Thus  was  the  dreary  Christmas  passed,  and  the  hearth 
and  hearts  of  the  household  of  the  late  Mr.  Milling  were 
21  16 


242        CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS. 

desolate  and  wretched,  with  scarce  a  hope  to  flash  its 
light  forward  upon  the  darkness  that  lay  beyond. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

BUSINESS AID  —  EFFORT MYSTERY. 

MR.  MILLING  had  been  dead  a  year,  and  had  he  been  a 
dozen  beneath  the  sod  he  could  scarcely  have  been 
more  effectually  forgotten  than  he  was  in  the  little 
twelvemonth  by  those  who  had  formerly  associated 
with  him,  and  shared  his  friendship  and  confidence. 
Not  a  word  had  been  heard  of  Mr.  Upshur,  and  the 
house  of  Partelot  &  Savage  enjoyed  the  reputation  of 
being  worthy  successors  of  the  late  house.  But  little 
change  had  taken  place  in  the  business.  The  old 
clerks  were  employed,  as  formerly,  at  their  long-accus- 
tomed places.  Even  the  two  heads  of  the  house,  as 
formerly,  spent  many  hours  by  the  desks  at  which  they 
had  commenced. 

"  The  Millings  have  become  much  reduced,"  said  Mr. 
Partelot,  one  afternoon,  pausing  from  his  writing. 

-"  Indeed  !  "  said  Savage,  gruffly,  not  stopping  to  utter 
the  word.  • 

"  Yes ;  I  called  upon  them,  the  other  day,  to  offer 
them  assistance,  and  found  Matilda  teaching  music." 

"  She  shows  her  sense,  then,"  said  Savage,  "  better 
than  half  of  those  who  are  circumstanced  as  she  is.  I 
like  her  for  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  ever  go  and  see  them,  Savage  ? '' 
asked  his  partner.  "  They  are  wondering  at  your 
strangeness.  You  have  n't  been  to  see  them  since  the 
funeral.  We  should  try  and  do  all  the  good  we  can." 

"  Small  good  I  can  do  them  ! "  was  the  caustic  reply. 
"  They  don't  want  to  see  me  —  they  never  did.  Or  at 
least  only  one  —  the  youngest." 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS.        243 

'*  Ah,  yes,  Lily,"  said  Mr.  Partelot.  "  She  is  a  strange 
girl  —  a  perfect  marvel ;  and  the  manner  in  which  she 
improves  in  her  education  is  astonishing." 

"  Ah  1 " 

"  Yes  ;  and  it  has  never  yet  been  discovered  at  whose 
expense  she  is  being  educated.  There  is  a  perfect  mys 
tery  about  it.  Did  you  ever  hear  about  it  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Well,  the  manner  of  it  was  this :  Mr.  Milling  had 
not  been  dead  more  than  a  month,  before  his  wife 
received  an  anonymous  letter,  professing  to  be  from  an 
old  friend  of  Mr.  Milling,  generously  offering  to  pay  for 
the  education  of  little  Lily,  besides  the  other  expenses 
of  her  maintenance,  the  only  condition  being  that  no 
inquiry  should  be  made  concerning  the  writer,  and  that 
all  sense  of  obligation  should  be  banished,  as  it  was  but 
a  mere  return  for  favor  received.  At  first  they  were 
reluctant  to  accept,  but  friends  persuaded  them  to 
regard  the  delicacy  of  the  proffer,  and  an  answer  was 
returned  to  the  post-office  address  given  in  the  note, 
thanking  the  liberal  friend  for  his  kindness,  and  con- 
senting to  his  proposition.  For  nearly  a  year  teachers 
have  visited  her  constantly,  —  coming  mysteriously  as 
the  slaves  of  the  lamp  and  ring.  No  questions  are 
asked  them,  as  it  would  violate  the  condition,  and  thus 
it  goes  on.  Strange,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Humph  !  The  same  old  story  of  romantic  folly," 
said  Savage.  "  Some  fellow,  probably,  is  doing  it,  who 
has  more  money  than  brains.  Were  Lily  not  a  child, 
one  might  fancy  there  was  an  ulterior  motive  beside 
the  one  of  mere  education.  Can  you  not  guess  who  this 
benefactor  is?" 

Mr.  Savage  looked  at  his  partner  steadily,  and  that 
worthy  young  man  said,  laughingly, 


244  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

"  '  Nay,  never  shake  thy  gory  locks  on  me  ! 
Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it.' 

My  province  extends  no  further  than  to  be  a  friend 
of  the  family,  and  all  I  can  do  for  them  is  simply  to 
advise.  I  wish  you  would  go  up  and  see  them." 

"  I  tell  you,  Partelot,  they  don't  want  to  see  me.  It 
is  you,  the  smooth-tongued  and  light-footed,  that  is 
wanted.  My  croaking  notes  would  set  their  teeth  on 
edge.  Leave  me  with  the  merchandise ;  bale-goods  are 
not  so  sensitive." 

Mr.  Savage  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  to  attend  to 
some  other  business,  and  an  expression  very  like 
"  churl "  trembled  on  Mr.  Partelot's  lips.  That  gentle- 
man felt  satisfied  at  that  moment  that  he  was  very  un- 
fortunate in  having  so  unsympathetic  a  partner,  and 
drew  some  self-gratulatory  comparisons  betwixt  him- 
self and  Mr.  Savage,  that  were  in  no  wise  flattering  to 
the  junior  member  of  the  firm. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Milling  had,  indeed,  left  his  family 
very  poor.  Everything  but  what  the  law  strictly 
allowed  them  had  gone  to  the  creditors,  and  they  found 
themselves  reduced  to  the  alternative  of  working  for  a 
living.  The  proud  Matilda — her  pride  lifting  her 
above  the  degradation  of  dependence  —  brought  the 
resources  of  a  cultivated  mind  to  the  business  of  life, 
and,  through  the  assistance  of  the  few  friends  who 
remained  true  to  them,  procured  pupils  for  the  piano, 
and  work  for  her  needle,  that  gave  a  moderate  income. 
The  greatest  care  was  on  account  of  Lily.  She  was 
likely  to  be  a  burden  because  of  her  helplessness. 
There  was  small  sympathy  between  her  and  her  mother 
and  sister,  who  deemed  her  a  dreamer ;  and  she  moved 
about  the  house  in  listless  inactivity,  her  large  eyes  full 
of  angelic  significance,  and  her  heart  full  of  loving  im- 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS.  245 

pulses.     It  was  at  this  time  that  her  mother  received  the 
following  note : 

"  MY  DEAR  MADAM  :  I  am  a  man  of  few  words  —  a 
friend  of  your  late  husband  —  with  means  sufficient  to 
carry  out  what  I  propose.  I  wish  to  return  a  portion 
of  the  benefit  he  conferred  upon  me,  a  poor  boy.  I  am 
aware  of  your  family  circumstances,  and  would  relieve 
a  portion  of  your  burden.  Your  youngest  daughter 
should  receive  an  education.  I  have  the  ability  to 
secure  it,  and  would  deem  it  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to 
incur  the  expense  attending  it.  The  only  condition  I 
propose  is  that  no  sense  of  obligation  may  be  allowed 
to  overpower  you,  and  no  effort  be  made  to  discover 
the  writer.  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  MEMORY. 

"  P.  S.  Address  me  through  the  post-office,  and  keep 
my  cognomen  a  secret  from  all." 

'*  Well,  this  is  a  mystery ! "  said  Mrs.  Milling,  as  she 
read  the  note,  and  handed  it  to  her  oldest  daughter. 
«  Who  can  it  be  ?  " 

The  daughter  scrutinized  the  letter  for  a  long  time  in 
silence,  in  an  endeavor,  if  possible,  to  detect  the  writing. 
At  last  she  said, 

"  I  strongly  suspect  it  is  Mr.  Partelot,  who  takes  this 
delicate  way  of  doing  us  a  kindness.  Shall  you  accept 
the  proposition  ?  " 

"  Not  without  advice.  We  should  be  particular  about 
these  things.  The  world  is  very  censorious." 

"  The  world  !  "  said  the  daughter,  bitterly  ;  "  what  is 
the  world  to  us,  if  it  cares  nothing  for  us  but  to  find 
fault  with  us  ?    If  it  be  Mr.  Partelot,  his  kindness  de- 
serves a  corresponding  return." 
21* 


246  CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS. 

"  But  if  it  be  not  his?  "  replied  Mrs.  Milling.  " I  de- 
clare I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  I  must  ask  advice. 
Shall  I  of  Mr.  Partelot?" 

"  By  no  means,"  was  the  reply ;  "  anybody  but  him. 
Ask  Mr.  Urbin,  father's  old  friend.  He  will  advise  for 
the  best.  I  will  endeavor  to  learn  from  Mr.  Partelot  if 
he  wrote  the  letter." 

Accordingly,  on  Mr.  Partelot's  next  visit,  the  daughter 
mentioned  the  fact  of  the  letter,  —  reserving  the  secret 
of  the  cognomen,  —  concluding  with  the  remark,  sig- 
nificantly made, 

"  Tax  your  memory,  my  dear  sir,  and  see  if  you  recall 
none  who  would  be  likely  to  do  this  thing." 

She  bent  her  eyes  on  him  with  an  expression  imply- 
ing that  she  suspected  his  participation  in  the  trans- 
action, which  he  read  at  a  glance.  He  lowered  his 
eyes  beneath  her  look,  and  asked  her  if  she  suspected 
him. 

She  confessed  that  she  did. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  it  places  me  in  a  position  where  I 
shall  claim  the  privilege  of  the  doubt.  I  shall  not  con- 
fess, and  shall  claim  that  you  intimate  your  suspicions 
of  me  to  no  one,  for  a  very  particular  reason." 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  as  he  spoke,  and  kissed  it 
very  respectfully.  She  withdrew  her  hand,  but  a  flush 
of  pleasure  passed  over  her  features.  Her  love  for 
Upshur  had  been  but  a  superficial  feeling,  with  which 
temper  and  pride  .had  more  to  do  than  the  softer  emo- 
tion of  the  heart.  This  pride  was  wounded  by  his  de- 
sertion, this  temper  was  aroused  by  his  perfidy ;  and  she 
had  banished  him  from  her  heart  with  no  regret,  or  even 
reluctance.  The  supposed  discovery  of  a  benefactor 
had  excited  her  gratitude,  —  a  kindred  feeling  with  love, 
—  and  she  felt  a  glow  of  happiness  that  had  not  been 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS.  247 

known  to  her  for  months.  Partelot  became  a  constant 
visitor  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Milling,  and  his  attentions 
to  the  fair  Matilda  were  of  the  most  assiduous  charac- 
ter. People  talked  of  it  as  a  fixed  thing  that  it  was  to 
be  "  a  match." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  conversation  occurred 
above  recorded.  Mr.  Savage  knew  nothing  of  his  pait- 
ner's  affair  with  the  daughter  of  his  old  employer,  and 
Mr.  Partelot  had  reserved  it  as  a  surprise  for  him, 
just  as  Savage  was  called  away  by  business.  After  a 
while  he  returned,  when  Mr.  P.,  resting  a  moment  from 
his  writing,  said, 

"  By  the  way,  Savage,  I  've  got  a  secret  for  you." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  his  partner. 

"  What  should  you  think  if  I  was  to  tell  you  that  I 
was  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  very  little  about  it.  It 's  no  business 
of  mine.  Your  wife  would  n't  become  a  member  of  the 
firm,  nor  a  part  of  the  stock." 

"Very  good!  That's  true,  Savage;  and  yet  she  is 
one  that  you  may  be  interested  in.  Suppose  I  should 
tell  you  that  it  was  Mr.  Milling's  daughter,  eh  ?  " 

"  What,  Lily  ? "  was  asked  in  a  tone  of  excitement, 
Mr.  Savage  starting  up  as  he  uttered  the  words. 

"  No,  no  ;  Lily  's  but  a  child.  'T  is  the  beautiful 
Matilda,  man.  Ha !  I  see  the  savage  is  moved.  She 
has  given  me  encouragement  to  hope  that  she  will 
become  Mrs.  Partelot.  Fine  woman,  Savage." 

"  But  do  you  love  her,  Partelot?  " 

"  What  a  question  to  a  man  who  has  been  dancing 
attendance  upon  a  woman  for  a  year,  studying  how  to 
love  her  ! " 

"  Love  is  a  lesson,  however,  not  to  be  learnt.     It  is 


248  CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS. 

imparted,  and  few  breasts  are  warmed  by  it  through 
education." 

"  Bah,  Savage  !  "  said  Partelot ;  "  you  are  a  croaker. 
Men  learn  to  love  as  they  learn  to  eat  olives.  'T  is  un- 
palatable, perhaps,  at  first,  but  after  a  while  one  gets 
used  to  it." 

li  Humph ! "  said  the  imperturbable  partner,  and  turned 
to  his  ledger. 

Time  moved  on,  and  brought  again  the  cheerful 
season  of  Christmas,  with  its  pleasant  associations  and 
reunions,  and  delightful  surprises ;  and  the  house  of 
Partelot  &  Savage  still  maintained  its  integrity. 

CHAPTER  v. 

CHBISTMAS   PRESENTS  —  A   PISCO  VERY. 

"  WHAT  can  this  be  ? "  said  Mrs.  Milling,  as  she  re- 
turned from  the  door  on  Christmas  morning,  bearing  a 
small  square  package  in  her  hand.  "  For  you,  Matilda, 
I  dare  say." 

The  package  was  unrolled,  and  was  found  to  contain 
a  little  rosewood  casket  of  rare  beauty,  upon  opening 
which  a  beautiful  necklace  of  oriental  pearls  was  dis- 
covered, pendent  from  which  was  a  cross  of  the  same, 
arched  by  a  golden  ray,  on  which  was  wrought  in  deli- 
cate letters  the  word  "  Memory  I"  On  a  card  in  the 
box  was  the  simple  name,  "  Lily." 

"  It  is  for  Lily,"  said  her  sister,  with  a  tone  of 
marked  disappointment.  "  Why  did  he  send  it  to  Tier  ? 
It  must  be  a  mistake." 

She  threw  the  bracelet  into  the  box,  with  a  petulant 
gesture,  and  handed  it  to  her  mother.  Lily  was  called, 
and,  to  her  great  surprise,  was  presented  with  the 
beautiful  gift.  The  fair  girl  stood  as  if  spell-bound  a 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS.  249 

moment,  when,  kneeling  by  her  sister's  side,  she  laid 
the  box  upon  her  lap,  and  bowed  her  head  before  her, 
saying, 

"  Sister,  it  is  for  you.  You  alone  are  worthy  to  wear 
it.  My  heart  accords  it  to  you." 

The  proud  girl  threw  it  from  her,  with  a  disdainful 
motion,  and  said,  sharply, 

"  Never  will  I  accept  it,  nor  wear  it !  Such  trifling  I 
will  not  endure  !  " 

She  rose  from  her  seat  as  she  spoke,  and  left  the 
room.  Lily  continued  to  kneel  by  the  chair  she  had 
just  left,  and  when  she  arose  she  found  herself  alone. 
The  box  was  at  her  feet,  opened,  and  the  necklace  lay 
upon  the  carpet.  She  looked  upon  it  with  a  feeling  of 
sorrow,  half  regarding  it  as  the  means  of  a  new  misery, 
when  the  card  on  which  her  name  was  written  attracted 
her  attention.  She  examined  it  minutely,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  where  the  letter  was  kept  that  had  proposed 
to  pay  for  her  education,  and  compared  the  writing.  It 
was  the  same,  beyond  a  doubt.  But,  though  one  wrote 
them  both,  who  the  one  was  was  a  matter  still  of  im- 
penetrable mystery. 

Mr.  Savage  had  never  been  at  the  home  of  the  Mil- 
lings since  the  death  of  his  old  patron.  His  diffident 
and  abrupt  nature  made  him  withdraw  himself  from 
other  besides  business  association,  and,  though  he  enter- 
tained as  far  as  he  could  a  friendly  feeling  for  the 
family,  he  did  not  dare  to  intrude  himself  upon  their 
time.  His  partner's  confession  had  awakened  in  him, 
apparently,  a  new  interest  for  them ;  and,  one  day,  in 
response  to  the  question  why  he  never  visited  them, 
he  promised  to  join  his  partner  there  in  a  visit  on 
Christmas  night. 

The  night  came,  and  found  Mr.  Partelot  at  Mrs.  Mil 


250        CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS. 

ling's  house.  The  little  parlor  was  neat  and  bright.  A 
wood-fire  burnt  briskly  upon  the  andirons,  and  flashed  a 
ruddy  light  around  the  room.  An  air  of  comfort  pre- 
vailed, that  mocked  the  inclemency  of  the  night  outside. 
Presently  the  door  opened,  and  Matilda  entered.  Her 
brow  was  gloomy  and  dark,  and  the  welcome  she  ex- 
tended was  very  stately. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  said  he,  "  that  Savage  is  n't  coming.  I 
don't  see  what  is  the  matter.  He  has  just  sent  me  a 
note,  saying  he  is  unavoidably  called  away  to  Mulberry- 
street  on  business." 

Some  brief  expression  of  regret  alone  was  uttered  in 
response.  He  resumed : 

"  A  strange  man  that  —  the  most  singular  man  I  ever 
knew." 

"  I  hope  he  is  sincere"  said  she,  with  a  significant 
tone. 

"  I  think  he  is,"  said  he. 

"  Is  he  accustomed  to  pretend  an  attachment  for  one 
person,  and  then  to  insult  her  by  bestowing  gifts  upon 
her  sister  and  slighting  her  ?  " 

"Upon  my  word,  I  think  not;  I  never  had  the  least 
idea  he  was  such  a  person.  By  the  way,  I  have  brought 
you  a  small  token  for  the  festive  season." 

He  took  a  small  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it 
to  her.  She  unrolled  the  package,  and  a  pair  of  lady's 
gloves  met  her  view. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  she,  with  seeming  delight.  "  Do 
you  present  these  to  me  at  the  invoice  price,  or  retail  ? '' 

"  We  have  them  invoiced  to  us ;  but  why  do  you 
ask  ?  " 

"  Only  to  know  how  to  compare  your  present  to  me 
with  that  of  yours  to  my  sister." 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND   HEARTS.  251 

"  To  your  sister  ! "  said  he,  with  a  tone  of  alarm.  "  I 
have  made  none." 

•'  Then  you  did  not  make  the  generous  proposition 
with  regard  to  Lily's  education  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  that  I  did/'  replied  he,  nervously  twist- 
ing Savage's  note  around  his  finger. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  but  you  Allowed  me  to  infer  that 
you  did  ;  and  the  man  who  can  meanly  take  to  himself 
the  credit  that  belongs  to  another  is  below  contempt." 

"  Well,  madam,"  said  he,  "  then,  as  I  am  below  con- 
tempt, I  am  below  your  graciousness,  and  hence  am  not 
worthy  of  you.  Good-evening." 

He  took  his  hat  and  passed  out,  as  a  butterfly  van- 
ishes at  the  approach  of  a  chill,  leaving  the  fair  being 
that  he  was  to  have  soon  claimed  as  his  own  to  a  new 
mortification.  Her  mother  and  sister  soon  after  found 
her  in  tears,  and  another  dreary  Christmas  folded  its 
wings  over  the  home  of  the  Millings. 

The  next  morning  Lily  was  alone  in  the  parlor,  en- 
gaged in  her  studies,  when  she  saw  a  paper  upon  the 
floor.  A  thrill  passed  over  her  frame  as  she  took  it  in 
her  hand,  —  an  indefinable  commingling  of  fear  and  joy. 
She  opened  it,  and  read : 

"  DEAR  PARTELOT  :  Please  excuse  me  to  the  family. 
[  am  suddenly  called  to  Mulberry-street.  My  sister  has 
arrived  from  the  country.  My  regards  to  Mrs.  M.,  and 
Misses  Matilda  and  Lily.  Yours,  SAVAGE." 

"  It  is  the  same  writing  as  the  letter  and  the  card,' 
said  she  ;  "  there  is  no  mistaking  the  word  *  Lily.'  But 
shall  I  betray  the  secret  thus  confided  to  me,  though 
unsought?  I  will  regard  the  delicacy  that  prompted  it, 


252  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND  HEARTS. 

and  keep  the  secret  hidden.  And  this  is  the  nature 
that  has  been  looked  upon  as  base,  uncouth ;  this  is  he 
who  has  been  treated  by  those  he  has  so  much  bene- 
fited as  a  clown  !  " 

The  fair  girl  had  forgotten  the  little  seed  of  kindness 
sown  in  his  heart  a  long  time  before,  —  sown  as  uncon- 
sciously as  the  birds  spread  luxuriousness  and  beauty 
in  their  flight,  and  make  hitherto  barren  and  inacces- 
sible places  pleasant  and  fruitful.  She  had  forgotten 
-  so  unconscious  was  she  —  the  words  of  kindness  ad- 
dressed to  him  in  the  library  of  their  old  home ;  but 
acts  and  words  of  kindness,  springing  from  the  God  in 
man,  partake  of  the  eternal  nature  of  God,  and  cannot 
die. 

Mr.  Partelot  came  no  more,  and  his  name  was  not 
mentioned  in  the  circle  where  he  had  formerly  been  so 
constant  a  visitor.  But  bitter  tears  were  shed  for  him, 
as  men  bend  over  a  grave  and  weep,  by  eyes  that  had 
once  beamed  for  him  so  brightly.  It  was  worse  than 
the  grave,  for  the  grave  is  honest ;  there  is  no  treach- 
ery there  to  add  poignancy  to  grief,  —  and  there  is  a 
resurrection  beyond,  but  none  to  buried  friendship. 

And  Lily  kept  her  secret  locked  within  her  breast, 
nourishing  a  gratitude,  approaching  to  idolatry,  for  the 
noble  being  who  was  doing  good  secretly,  expecting 
and  hoping  for  no  return,  and  even  incurring  the  sus- 
picion of  churlishness  from  those  around  him.  She  grew 
in  grace  of  mind  and  body,  and  her  eyes  lost  none  of 
the  spiritual  power  that  seemed  to  enter  within  the 
vo:l. 


CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS  AND    HEARTS.  253 

CHAPTER   VI. 

THE   CONCLUSION,   IN  WHICH  HAPPENS  : 

THE  house  of  Partelot  &  Savage  was  the  best  house 
upon  the  street.  Their  paper  was  as  good  as  gold,  and 
both  members  of  the  firm  were  esteemed  rich.  But  the 
repulse  of  Mr.  Partelot  at  the  hands  of  Miss  Milling 
could  not  be  healed  by  time  or  business,  and,  after 
enduring  it  for  a  time,  he  thought  he  would  try  a 
European  tour.  It  was  not  that  his  heart  was  touched, 
—  that  could  not  be  reached,  —  but  his  ambition  was 
thwarted.  Men  talked  about  it,  and  his  quiet  partner 
looked,  in  his  disordered  eyes,  very  knowing.  So  much 
did  these  things  prey  upon  him  that  he  concluded  to 
sell  out.  He  made  Mr.  Savage  an  offer  to  place  the 
business  in  his  hands  for  a  consideration,  which  was 
accepted,  and  Mr.  Partelot  left  for  the  Old  World. 

Mr.  Milling  had  been  dead  six  years,  and  his  family 
remained  the  same  as  at  the  beginning  of  their  desola- 
tion, save  that  time  had  done  its  work  with  them.  But 
time  had  been  gracious  with  Lily.  Her  beautiful  form 
was  a  marvel  of  grace,  her  face  was  as  bright  as  an 
angel's,  and  her  mind  endowed  with  qualities  that  placed 
her  far  before  those  of  her  own  age  and  condition.  All 
loved  her  for  her  virtues ;  but  there  was  one,  of  all  the 
rest,  whom  she  sighed  to  reach,  —  to  throw  herself  at 
his  feet  and  confess  her  indebtedness,  and  devote  her 
life  to  his  service.  He  had  been  prompt,  year  by  year. 
in  his  strange  benevolence,  and  year  by  year  she  had 
received  some  elegant  token  of  his  care,  all  bearing  the 
same  motto,  "  Memory,"  and  all  addressed  simply 
"  Lily."  Safely  had  she  kept  that  secret  so  strangely 
gained,  amid  the  often-expressed  wonder  concerning  it 
from  those  near  to  her.  While  her  whole  nature  was  aa 
22 


254  CHRISTMAS    HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

transparent  as  the  day  to  loving  eyes,  she  kept  this 
little  thought  enshrined  in  a  holy  of  holies,  within 
which  none  might  enter  but  Him  who  readeth  all  secrets 

The  singularity  that  had  characterized  her  earlier 
years  marked  her  growth.  There  were  few  who 
understood  her,  few  that  she  recognized  with  the  en 
dearment  of  friendship ;  and,  although  her  companions 
loved  her,  it  was  with  a  feeling  allied  to  awe,  so  dif- 
ferent was  she  from  them.  Of  those  who  knew  her  the 
least  were  her  own  mother  and  sister.  They  ascribed 
to  indolence  the  listlessness  which  at  times  seemed  to 
mark  her  conduct,  and  to  fanaticism  the  lifting  up  of 
spirit,  which  they  comprehended  not.  Her  words  fell 
like  music  about  her  path,  and,  though  she  had  no 
wealth  to  give,  her  "  God  bless  you  "  thrilled  the  heart 
of  those  who  received  it  like  a  heavenly  benison. 

Among  her  friends  was  one,  with  whom  she  had  but 
recently  become  acquainted,  a  little  older  than  herself. 
Endowed  with  more  positiveness  of  character,  she  was 
a  desirable  companion  for  Lily ;  and,  drawn  together  by 
sympathetic  proclivities,  their  companionship  was  of 
the  most  agreeable  description.  Agnes  resided  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  city,  and  Lily  had  never  visited  hei 
in  her  home,  although  they  frequently  met  at  the  houses 
of  mutual  friends.  She  had  frequently  spoken  of  her 
brother,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond ;  but  Lily  had  never 
met  with  him. 

It  was  again  the  Christmas  time  of  year,  and  Agnes 
Loyle  was  going  to  give  a  select  party  on  Christmas 
night.  Cards  were  despatched,  and  preparations  made 
suited  to  the  occasion.  Music  and  conversation  and  social 
pleasure  were  to  form  its  essential  features.  Its  ulterior 
object,  however,  was  a  deeply-conceived  and  womanly 
scheme  of  bringing  Lily  Milling  and  her  brother  to- 


CHEISTMAS  HEAETHS  AND  HEARTS.        255 

gether,  though  this  was  hidden  from  all  but  herself. 
Lily,  retiring  and  reserved,  would  have  been  better 
content  to  have  enjoyed  her  friend's  society  alone,  but 
she  gave  her  assent  to  the  arrangement.  She  was  to  be 
accompanied  by  her  sister. 

The  night  was  pleasant.  The  moon  and  stars  glit- 
tered in  the  frosty  atmosphere,  and  the  merry  sleigh- 
bells  made  music  as  the  fleet  steeds  dashed  on  over  the 
flinty  snow.  The  vehicle  which  bore  Lily  and  Matilda 
Milling  stopped  before  a  small  but  elegant  house,  bril- 
liantly lighted,  and  seemingly  the  abode  of  comfort  and 
taste.  Entering,  they  were  met  by  Agnes  herself,  who 
conducted  her  guests  into  the  parlor,  where  several  of 
the  company  had  assembled,  and  where  the  rest  soon 
after  joined  them. 

"  Miss  Matilda,  shall  I  make  you  acquainted  with  my 
brother,  Mr.  Savage  ?  Lily,  my  brother,  Mr.  Savage," 
was  said  in  the  pleasant  voice  of  Agnes  Loyle.  But 
with  far  different  feelings  was  the  name  heard.  In  one 
heart  it  was  associated  with  crushed  hopes  and  buried 
pride;  in  the  other,  with  veneration,  and  love,  and  grati- 
tude ;  but  by  both  it  was  received  with  evident  emotion. 
It  was  an  incomprehensible  mystery  that  George  Sav- 
age should  be  the  brother  of  Agnes  Loyle,  and  yet  so 
it  was ;  she  was  a  sister  by  a  second  marriage.  She 
was  his  only  sister,  and  he  loved  her  devotedly.  When 
their  mother  died,  some  years  before,  he  sent  for  her  to 
come  and  live  with  him  ;  and  she  arrived  in  town  on  a 
Christmas  day,  and  had  been  installed  mistress  of  the 
little  house  in  Mulberry-street. 

"  The  Misses  Milling  will  remember  in  me  an  old 
acquaintance,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  ;  "  and,"  he  added, 
to  Lily,  with  a  softened  tone  "  my  memory  recalls  a 


256  CHRISTMAS   HEARTHS   AND   HEARTS. 

sweet  child,  who  was  as  much  of  an  angel  in  character 
as  she  is  now  angelic  as  a  woman." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  as  he  spoke. 

Bravo,  Mr.  Savage  !  The  ice  has  melted  suddenly  ; 
the  ungentle  and  unoourtly  man  has  bowed  before  a 
little  girl.  What  would  Mr.  Partelot  say  to  see  it?  He 
once  called  you  a  churl.  What  would  the  world  say  to 
see  it  ?  It  has  called  you  a  churl  for  years.  Mr.  Sav- 
age cared  not  for  Partelot,  —  for  the  world,  —  but  he 
cared  for  Lily,  the  sweetest  flower  that  ever  blossomed 
in  a  human  garden. 

"  You  are  confused  at  finding  me  the  brother  of 
Agnes,"  said  he  ;  "  she  is  my  half-sister,  and  I  need  not 
praise  her  goodness  to  those  who  know  her  so  well. 
She  had  advantages  of  cultivation  that  I  never  knew, 
and  is  the  redeeming  feature  of  my  home,  and  gives  it 
its  refinement." 

How  gentlemanly  he  spoke,  the  uncouth  and  churlish 
Mr.  Savage !  The  visitors  scarcely  spoke,  all  busied 
with  their  thoughts,  when  the  voice  of  Agnes  broke  the 
spell. 

"  Come,  come,  there  are  sports  going  on  here  that 
rival  those  of  the  Olympiad,  and  are  as  rich  with  forfeits 
as  an  argosy.  Come  and  help  us." 

The  Christmas  games  had  commenced,  and  fun  and 
frolic  ruled  the  hour.  Young  men  and  young  women 
vied  in  their  playful  zeal ;  but,  soon  wearied  with  the  ex- 
citement, the  noisy  games  broke  up,  and  charades  and 
enigmas  were  personated. 

"  Let  us  try  fortune-telling,"  said  one  of  the  party ; 
"  some  rare  sport  comes  out  of  it  sometimes." 

Fortune-telling  was  at  once  decided  upon ;  but  who 
would  be  the  fortune-teller?  Several  refused  to  per- 
Bonate  the  eldritch  dame,  when  Lily  was  asked  to 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS.        257 

assume  the  wand  of  inspiration,  to  which  she  assented. 
It  was  deemed  strange  that  she  should ;  but  the  very 
singularity  of  her  consenting  accounted  for  it.  She 
accordingly  was  installed  in  a  large  old-fashioned  chair, 
and  before  her  came  those  whose  fate  she  was  to 
determine.  And  wise  were  her  words,  and  momentous 
the  matters  of  advice  or  prophecy  that  crossed  her  lips. 
With  intuitive  keenness  she  enlarged  on  matrimonial 
probabilities  and  collateral  contingencies.  The  gentle 
Lily's  witchery  was  perfect  and  irresistible,  and  crowned 
by  an  applause  that  knew  no  bound. 

"  And  what  has  the  prophetess  to  say  for  me  ?  "  said 
George  Savage,  standing  before  the  Power. 

She  gazed  upon  him  with  an  emotion  imperfectly  con- 
cealed, before  she  trusted  her  voice  to  speak ;  and  then 
she  spoke  low,  in  a  manner  that  those  around  could  not 
hear. 

"  I  have  to  say  for  you,"  said  she,  "  that  the  hidden 
charity  of  a  life,  and  its  unselfish  devotion  to  others' 
good,  has  a  reward  beyond  that  waiting  upon  its  grati 
fi  cation." 

He  started,  as  she  spoke. 

"  What  means  the  enchantress  ?  "  said  he,  endeavor- 
ing to  assume  his  former  light-hearted  and  indifferent 
tone. 

"  I  mean,"  continued  she,  "  that  the  flowers  one  plants 
by  the  way  of  life  do  not  die  in  meaningless  beauty, 
but  yield  a  fragrant  adoration  for  the  kindness  that 
planted  them ;  that  a  mind,  enkindled  by  the  loving  and 
secret  care  that  sought  to  hide  its  own  benevolence, 
would  be  unworthy  of  its  development,  did  it  not  show 
by  its  gratitude  that  it  treasured  the  act  in  memory !" 

She  Avhispered  the  words  in  his  ear,  her  face  glowing 
with  the  fulness  of  her  delighted  heart,  and,  lifting  a 
22*  17 


258        CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS. 

little  cross  that  lay  upon  her  breast,  suspended  from  a 
string  of  pearls  about  her  neck,  she  pointed  significantly 
tc  the  word  "  memory ! " 

Mr.  Savage  turned  as  pale  as  death,  for  a  moment,  arid 
then  a  burning  flush  passed  over  his  features. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  said  many  voices,  eagerly. 

"  Nothing,"  said  he  ;  "  that  is,  nothing  which  need  be 
spoken  of.  I  make  way  for  any  one,  and  truly  believe 
in  the  sibylline  character  of  the  one  you  have  installed." 

The  Christmas  evening  sped  merrily,  and  joyful  hearts 
throbbed  in  delightful  harmony  with  the  pulsing  mo- 
ments. Mr.  Savage  was  silent  and  gravely  pleasant ; 
but  there  w«s  a  satisfaction  on  his  face  that  dispelled 
all  idea  that  pain  made  him  grave.  He  sought  con 
stantly  the  side  of  the  graceful  Lily,  who  seemed  im 
bued  with  life  scarce  her  own.  At  last,  when  away 
from  the  gay  revellers,  he  asked  her  to  explain  the  dis- 
covery of  his  secret.  She  did  so,  and  told  him  her  own 
feelings  upon  becoming  its  recipient;  and,  as  she  dwelt 
upon  her  perception  of  his  delicacy  in  the  affair,  and 
her  warm  appreciation,  he  clasped  her  hand,  and,  drop- 
ping upon  his  knee  by  her  side,  said : 

"  The  sweet  budding  Lily  of  my  boyhood  I  have  long 
worn  in  my  heart  secretly.  0,  could  I  but  hope  to  wear 
the  flower,  in  its  expanded  beauty,  there  ! " 

Her  hand,  not  withdrawn,  trembled  in  his,  as  he  spoke, 
and  he  accepted  the  emotion  as  an  answer  to  his  prayer. 

"  My  secret  has  been  my  bane,"  said  he,  with  her 
hand  still  in  his.  "  I  have  avoided  meeting  you,  for 
fear  of  betraying  it  —  watching  you,  however,  as  you 
have  grown  in  grace  and  beauty,  arid  loving  you  at  a 
distance,  until  my  angelic  sister,  who  guessed  my  feel- 
ing, though  she  did  not  the  secret,  has  brought  us 
together." 


CHRISTMAS  HEARTHS  AND  HEARTS.        259 

Lily  was  happy,  and  true  enough  to  tell  him  that' she 
loved  him,  and  had  long  done  so,  but  without  knowing 
him,  save  as  one  true  heart  knows  another  ;  am!  was  true 
enough,  also,  to  tell  him  she  would  be  his  Wife  when  a 
year  or  two  more  should  better  fit  her  for  the  honorable 
station,  so  little  understood,  even  with  six  thousand 
scriptural  years  resting  on  it. 

And  thus  ended  the  Christmas,  with  mirth,  and  love, 
and  hope,  to  sanctify  it.  Memory  became  present  joy, 
and  an  augury  of  future  happiness.  The  years  rolled 
on,  and  Lily  lived  the  angel,  rather  than  the  wife,  of 
Savage,  —  the  synonym  of  the  true  woman  who  truly 
loves,  —  whose  love  is  divine,  and  allows  no  grosser 
element  to  mingle  with  it.  Based  on  respect  and  grat- 
itude, it  was  a  lifetime  wave  of  devotion  and  trustful- 
ness, bearing  their  bark  of  happiness  on  to  the  heaven 
of  rest. 

Mr.  Partelot  returned  home,  after  an  absence  of  some 
years,  bringing  with  him  a  foreign  wife.  He  became 
again  engaged  in  business,  and  is  now  regarded  as  an 
excellent  man, —  oily  and  profuse, — though  he  is  as  hol- 
low-hearted as  ever.  Matilda  married  a  seafaring  gen- 
tleman, and  wears  the  largest  crinoline  on  the  street. 
Mrs.  Milling,  as  if  having  nothing  else  worth  living  for 
after  she  had  seen  her  daughters  disposed  of,  died  and 
was  buried.  Mr.  Upshur  was  never  heard  of,  and  it 
was  supposed  that  he  was  devoured  by  the  Fejee  Island- 
ers, as  it  was  ascertained,  from  a  returned  missionary, 
that  one  answering  his  description  had  been  served  up 
about  that  time. 

Our  story  has  no  thrilling  interest ;  but  this  may  be 
gathered  from  it — that  scenes  are  enacted  at  our  doors, 
which,  could  we  but  see  them,  would  be  found  to  be 
great  dramas,  where  the  heart  plays  its  part,  performing 


260  HIGHER. 

its  role  with  painfulness  or  joy.  But  few  spectators 
are  allowed  to  enter  the  portals,  where  no  passport  but 
human  sympathy  can  find  admittance,  and  the  curtaip 
often  shuts  down  in  darkness  on  a  tragedy  of  i  uinec 
hopes. 

HIGHER. 

PLEASED  with  our  loves  and  low  desires, 

We  sit  like  children  midst  the  flowers, 
No  thought  our  listless  soul  inspires, 

Or  wakes  to  life  its  nobler  powers  ; 
We  feel  the  sunshine  round  us  glow, 

And  smile  in  imbecile  content, 
Letting  the  golden  moments  go 

That  heaven  for  ripe  fruition  meant. 

As  one  by  one  our  idols  fade, 

We  moping  sit  and  weakly  sigh 
That  earthly  loves  so  frail  are  made, 

That  earthly  hopes  should  ever  die ! 
Amid  the  beauteous  wreck  we  mourn 

Our  altars  prostrate  in  the  dust, 
And  to  the  opening  future  turn 

With  heart  of  doubting  and  distrust. 

Captive  we  lie  in  flowery  chains, 

By  enervating  pleasure  bound, 
Forgetting  life's  broad  battle-plains, 

Where  work  and  its  reward  are  found— ^ 
Forgetting  for  the  grovelling  toys, 

Around  our  feet  as  meshes  spread, 
E'er  to  look  upward  for  the  joys 

That  hang  in  clusters  o'er  our  head 

How  idle  we  to  strive  to  hold 

The  shadows  that  our  joys  eclipse, 
Or  eat  the  fruit  of  seeming  gold 

That  breaks  in  ashes  on  our  lips, 
When  ready  to  our  outstretched  hand 

Celestial  fruits  their  claims  commend, 
The  product  of  that  promised  land 

To  which  all  manly  strivings  tend ! 


REVERIES.  261 


REVERIES. 

RIGHT  before  the  window  yonder  is  a  wall,  left  bare 
and  naked  by  the  removal  of  a  building  torn  down  to 
make  way  for  modern  improvements.  Upon  the  wall, 
clambering  up  over  its  surface  in  tortuous  winding,  is 
the  mark  of  an  old  chimney-flue,  black  and  sooty  with 
the  accumulative  smoke  of  years.  It  is  not  a  very 
beautiful  object  to  contemplate,  but  it  thrusts  itself 
upon  the  vision,  and  will  not  down  at  our  bid,  because, 
probably,  it  can't  get  down.  There  7s  a  desolateness 
about  the  wall,  and  we  count  the  places  where  the 
beams,  that  supported  the  floor,  entered  it,  and  extended 
along  in  tiers  like  the  port-holes  in  the  side  of  a  ship-of- 
war;  and  we  sit  looking  out  upon  it,  while  fancy  recon- 
structs the  old  edifice,  and  peoples  it  again,  and  makes 
it  all  full  of  bustle  and  life.  Piece  by  piece  the  old 
structure  goes  up,  and  we  move  among  its  living  occu- 
pants —  old  fashioned,  maybe,  and  quaint  in  dress,  but 
with  the  same  heart  underneath  all  —  and  sit  with  them 
in  the  low-studded  rooms  by  the  side  of  the  old  fire- 
place, of  which  yonder  is  the  flue.  They  burnt  wood- 
fires  then,  that  crackled  and  blazed  upon  the  hearth, 
and  sent  their  cheerful  warmth  out  into  the  rooms,  and 
flashed  in  ruddy  light  upon  as  pleasant  faces  as  one 
could  desire  to  see — illuminating  the  wainscot,  and  the 
ancient  furniture,  and  the  plate  that  shone  upon  the 
side-board.  We  hear  again  the  pleasant  joke,  followed 
by  the  laugh  that  circles  the  band,  and  the  repartee 
that  sparkles  like  the  fire-light,  or  the  bright  eyes  that 
reflect  its  beams.  That  is  punch  —  a  jolly  and  gener- 
ous bowl  of  it  —  that  stands  upon  the  table,  sending  up 
its  steamy  and  savory  breath;  and  the  silver  ladle  above 
its  brim  is  a  quaint  old  thing  that  has  been  in  the  family 


262  OLD   AND  YOUNG. 

for  many  years,  and  stands  up  with  a  consciousness  of 
importance  that  is  delightful  to  see.  All  partake  —  the 
old  and  the  young  —  and  beautiful  lips  press  the  gob- 
let's brim,  nor  think  shame  of  it,  though  modern  usage 
might  condemn  it ;  but  those  were  rum  days.  That  old 
hearth  was,  doubtless,  the  scene  of  many  tender  epi- 
sodes —  shut  out,  however,  from  gaze  by  the  roseate 
screen  which  delicacy  wove  in  the  days  of  their  enact- 
ment. But  fancy  enters  the  veil,  and  the  sigh  and  the 
tear,  the  kiss  and  the  vow,  are  things  of  now,  redolent 
with  the  sweetness  of  yesterday's  love.  The  voices 
of  children  sound  around  the  old  dark  hearth,  and  the 
gentle  tones  of  age  in  wise  counsel  give  serenity  and 
sanctity  to  the  whole.  And  grief  obtrudes  its  pictures, 
thrusting  the  bier  and  the  pall  amid  the  roses  and  the 
myrtles,  and  a  skeleton  hand  writes  "Death  "  upon  the 
wall  opposite  where  the  wood-fire  brightens  and  flashes. 
What  a  queer  train  of  fancies  has  the  old  wall  conjured 
up  !  But,  as  we  gaze,  the  fabric  falls  piece  by  piece 
away ;  the  scene  fades  out ;  the  murmur  of  voices  be- 
comes again  the  familiar  sounds  of  trade  ;  the  fire  is 
quenched  by  the  snow  that  drips  upon  it ;  positive 
bricks  take  the  place  of  unsubstantial  fancies,  and  the 
flue,  black  and  repulsive,  stares  us  again  in  the  face,  a 
cold  and  cheerless  presentment  of  desolation. 


OLD    AND    YOUNG. 

THE  term  young  is  used  in  contradistinction  with 
old,  and,  as  applied  to  young  people,  refers  only  to 
the  condition  of  juvenility.  There  be,  however,  some 
young  people  who  never  are  young,  and  old  ones  who 
never  are  old,  where  the  two  states  appear  to  have 
been  transposed.  We  often  meet  with  such  strangely 


THE  VALLEY  OP  THE  SHADOW.         263 

old  children  that  they  seem  from  their  cradles  to  have 
stepped  right  over  the  sunny  land  of  youth  into  matur- 
ity. We  are  startled  at  their  wisdom,  and  listen  to  their 
old  words  as  to  the  teachings  of  an  oracle,  deeming 
them  influenced  by  some  mysterious  power.  We  can- 
not treat  them  as  children,  nor  pet  them,  as  we  think 
that  Socrates  or  Plato  may  have  hid  themselves  in  the 
infantile  organism,  and  stand  ready  to  launch  upon  ua 
some  abstruse  question  in  metaphysics.  The  young-old 
people  are  those  who  have,  all  their  lives,  kept  their 
feelings  young  by  active  sympathy,  and  love,  and  kind- 
ness ;  and  it  is  very  beautiful  to  witness  such  as  in  this 
very  latest  season  of  life  enjoy  this  Indian  summer  of 
the  soul.  The  tenderest  and  the  most  mature  do  hom- 
age to  such,  and  we  draw  towards  them  as  we  draw 
towards  a  shrine  full  of  beautiful  relics.  This  condition 
of  youth  in  age  is  too  rarely  met  with.  The  world 
comes  soon  between  the  soul  and  its  better  self,  and 
the  fermentation  of  care,  and  strife,  and  toil,  sours  the 
milk  of  kindness  in  the  nature,  and  men  grow  crabbed 
and  miseiable  as  they  grow  old,  when  they  should,  in 
tranquil  pleasure,  be  like  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
calm  and  undisturbed. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

DOWN  the  dark  valley,  alone,  alone, 

Has  our  white-winged  dove  in  her  beauty  flown  ; 

Her  tender  eyes  that  shone  so  bright 

Have  closed  forever  to  earthly  light ; 

She  has  left  the  love  that  was  round  her  thrown, 

And  down  the  valley  has  fled,  alone. 

There  were  bitter  tears  when  she  passed  away  — 
A  sad,  sad  cloud  obscured  our  day  ! 


264          THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

She  had  twined  herself  round  each  loving  heart. 
Till  she  seemed  of  its  very  self  a  part ; 
0,  how  we  loved  her ! — but  she  has  flown 
Down  the  dark  valley  —  alone,  alone. 

She  was  but  a  fragile  and  beautiful  thing, 
A  blossom  to  bloom  in  the  lap  of  Spring  ; 
The  noonday  heat  with  its  feverish  glow, 
And  the  chilly  breath  of  the  wintry  snow, 
She  could  not  abide,  and  thus  has  flown 
Down  the  dark  valley — alone,  alone. 

0,  dark  to  us  doth  the  valley  appear, 

And  we  shrink  aghast  from  its  shadows  drear ; 

The  earthly  sense  is  chilled  by  the  gloom 

Of  the  sombre  midnight  of  the  tomb  ; — 

Thus  we  gave  her  up,  while  our  hearts  made  moan. 

As  she  went  down  the  valley — alone,  alone. 

Alone,  all  alone  !  but  beyond  the  night 
Of  the  darkened  vale  is  a  radiant  light, 
That  breaks  from  above  with  diviner  ray 
Than  shines  the  glory  of  solar  day, 
Which  springs  from  God's  eternal  throne, 
And  lights  the  valley  she  trod  alone  ! 

And  seraph  hands  in  joyfulness  hold 
The  little  wanderer  from  our  fold  ; 
Her  gentle  feet  shall  feel  no  harm, 
Sustained  by  the  angelic  arm, 
And  brighter  than  the  sun  e'er  shone 
IB  she  who  passed  down  the  valley  alone. 


THE  MODEL   HUSBAND.  265 


THE    MODEL    HUSBAND. 

MR.  BLIFKINS  is  a  social  and  genial  man.  He  belongs 
to  a  number  of  associations,  that  require  his  absence 
from  home  occasionally,  and  there  are  times  when  he 
chooses  to  indulge  in  a  little  sit-down  with  his  friends, 
and  enjoy  for  a  time  an  abandon  of  care,  whether  of  a 
business  or  of  a  domestic  nature.  Mr.  Blifkins  has  one 
of  the  best  of  wives.  She  is  exemplary  in  all  the  walks 
of  life,  and  fully  up  to  the  Solomon  standard  of  domes- 
tic excellence,  as  set  forth  in  the  thirty-first  chapter  of 
Proverbs.  There  is  but  one  thing  in  the  way  of  Mr. 
Blifkins'  entire  felicity,  and  that  is  her  disposition  to 
measure  Mr.  B.'s  grain  by  her  own  bushel,  so  to  speak, 
and  because  she  is  perfect,  and  feels  no  drawing  to- 
wards the  pursuits  of  her  amiable  husband.  Preferring 
her  own  home  to  everything  else  in  the  world,  and 
knowing  no  desire  or  wish  beyond  it,  she  expects  Blif- 
kins to  be  the  duplicate  of  herself.  Hence,  without 
meaning  anything  unkind,  she  presumes  occasionally  to 
lecture  her  spouse,  and  wonders  that  he  should  go  and 
sleep  with  the  children  rather  than  hear  lessons  so  well 
intended.  These  lessons  afflict  poor  Blifkins,  who  loves 
his  wife  and  loves  his  children,  but  he  has  a  love  for 
friends  likewise,  and  does  not  believe  in  the  crucifixion 
of  all  affection  outside  the  domestic  ring.  He  even 
believes  that  integrity  to  his  manhood  requires  that  he 
should  cultivate  such  affection,  and  that  to  crush  it 
down  would  be  to  make  his  other  affection  diseased,  aa 
the  entire  physical  system  may  be  thrown  out  of  bias 
by  a  felonious  finger  or  a  gouty  toe.  This  is  heresy  to 
good  Mrs.  Blifkins,  for  the  reason  that  she  don't  under- 
stand it,  and  continually  persists  in  making  herself  un- 
23 


266  THE  MODEL   HUSBAND. 

happy  by  the  unhappiness  she  reflects  from  the  audi- 
ence to  which  she  lectures  —  Blifkins. 

"  Mrs.  Blifkins,"  said  he,  one  day,  "  will  you  conde- 
scend to  give  me  your  idea  of  a  perfect  husband  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  B.,"  said  that  most  excellent  lady, 
"  and  I  hope  the  model  I  shall  draw  will  be  followed  by 
you,  and,  heaven  knows,  there  is  need  of  improvement ; 
for,  what  with  lodge-meetings  and  such  things  as  I  don't 
know  about,  you  don't  act  as  a  married  man  should, 
with  a  lovely  family,  that  need  a  head  to  look  after 
them." 

"  Well,"  said  Biifkins,  lighting  a  cigar,  and  putting 
his  feet  upon  the  table,  "  now  fire  away." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  she,  "  my  model  husband  would 
not  address  his  wife  in  that  way ;  he  would  have  said, 
'  Proceed,  my  dear.'  It  all  comes  of  keeping  company 
with  masons  and  odd  fellows,  and  fellows  that,  perhaps, 
••y—'L  can  say  perhaps,  Mr.  Blifkins? — are  not  so  respect- 
able. My  model  husband  has  none  of  the  small  vices 
of  some  husbands  that  I  could  name ;  of  one,  at  least. 
He  does  n't  spit  in  the  house,  nor  put  his  feet  on  the 
table,  nor  smoke  when  his  wife  is  speaking  to  him.  He 
is  too  respectable  for  that.  He  stays  at  home  every 
night,  and  finds  his  lodge  at  that  shrine  of  the  true 
heart,  the  domestic  fireside.  He  never  comes  home 
with  excuses  that  nobody  knows  if  they  are  true  or  not. 
He  never  has  people  come  to  see  him,  to  be  shut  up 
with  him  for  an  hour,  in  conversation  that  his  wife  is 
uot  allowed  to  hear.  He  never  goes  out  without  he 
takes  her  with  him.  He  never  spends  money  that  he 
cannot  account  for  if  she  asks  him,  and  never  doubts 
the  wisdom  or  the  expediency  of  purchases  that  she 
may  make.  He  is  just  where  he  is  wanted  when  he  is 
wanted.  He  never  contradicts  his  wife,  nor  treats  her 


SONNET   TO   PAN.  267 

like  a  bruta,  as  some  husbands  do,  nor  makes  her  cup  a 
bitterness,  when  he  should  strive  to  make  it  pleasant. 
In  short — " 

"  In  short,"  said  Blifkins,  starting  up,  and  throwing 
his  cigar  into  the  grate,  with  startling  violence,  "  in 
short,  you  want  a  miserable,  spiritless,  senseless,  con- 
temptible thing,  —  brainless  and  heartless,  —  that  will 
throw  himself  under  the  wheels  of  the  matrimonial  jug- 
gernaut, and  allow  it  to  crush  him,  without  turning ; 
and  then,  when  you  have  found  such  a  being,  and  the 
world  points  at  him  as  the  '  hen-pecked,'  the  '  spoon,' 
the  '  automaton,'  you  would  love  him  better,  would 
you,  than  you  do  the  gallant,  handsome,  and  spirited 
Blifkins,  who  has  the  delight  to  acknowledge  you  as  his 
wife,  but  not  his  tyrant  nor  overseer  ?  " 

Mrs.  Blifkins  brightened  up  at  this  a  very  little,  but 
she  does  n't  know  where  it  will  end. 


SONNET    TO    PAN. 

0  PAN  !  once  held  the  Deity  of  woods, 

Now  changed  thy  place,  —  thy  former  state  forgot,  • 
We  see  thee  ranked  amongst  our  household  goods  — 

Not  gods  —  thy  sacredness  all  "  gone  to  pot." 
Thy  ministers  are  cooks,  an  unctuous  crew, 

Who  all  thy  old  austerities  ignore  ; 
The  grateful  incense  of  the  morning  dew 

Goes  up  from  off  thine  altar  never  more ; 
But  odorous  fries  wake  gustatory  qualms, 

And  simmering  compounds  scent  the  ambient  air, 
The  "  siss  "  of  sausages  ascends  like  psalms, 

The  fume  of  mutton  rises  like  a  prayer. 
Thus  do  we  change ;  0  Pan  !  with  heathen  man  ; 
Thou  wast  a  god  —  now  thou  'rt  a  dripping  Pan. 


268  ILLUSTEATIVE  PANTOMIME. 

ILLUSTRATIVE    PANTOMIME. 

THIS  is  excellent  in  its  way;  a  good  sentence  is 
helped  materially  by  an  appropriate  gesture  in  the  right 
place,  and  even  a  dull  one  is  saved  from  absolute 
stupidity  by  a  timely  illustrative  motion  of  the  hand. 
But  we  deprecate  the  practice  of  some,  who,  when  tell- 
ing a  story  involving  an  account  of  their  conversation 
or  conduct  with  others,  particularly  of  a  quarrelsome 
nature,  go  through  the  motions  again  in.  public,  as  if 
•we  were  the  party  in  difficulty,  leaving  people  pass- 
ing to  infer  that  we  are  the  victim  of  their  deadly  hate. 
How  terrible  it  is  to  have  one  of  the  bellicose  sort 
back  us  to  the  wall  and  force  us  to  listen  to  the 
account  of  his  trouble  with  another  like  himself,  maugre 
our  protestations  of  business  and  haste  !  "  Only  a 
minute,"  he  says,  and  then,  taking  us  by  the  collar, 
while  we  endeavor  to  give  a  smiling  lie  to  our  real  feel- 
ings, he  commences  to  say  that  he  called  on  his  antag- 
onist, and,  says  he  to  him,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  such 
conduct  ?  "  This,  of  course,  is  yelled  at  the  top  of  the 
voice,  and  people  look  round  to  see  what  the  row  is  about. 
He  then  goes  on :  "  He  had  no  explanation  to  make." 
This  is  said  in  a  moderate  tone.  "  Then,  says  I,"  he 
continues,  in  a  loud  voice, "  you  are  an  infernal  rascal," 
—  doubling  his  fist  in  our  face,  and  holding  our  collar 
by  the  other  hand,  — "  and  deserve  to  have  your  nose 
pulled  I "  We  try,  with  a  very  severe  effort,  to  look 
good-natured ;  but  people  stare  at  us,  and  policemen 
stand  on  the  opposite  side,  watching  for  the  moment  of 
actual  strife,  to  pitch  in.  "  I  told  him,"  —  still  bran- 
dishing his  fist,  and  speaking  loud,  —  "  you  are  a  scamp, 
sir,  and  when  I  meet  you  on  'Change  I'll  kick  you! 
He  tried  to  go  into  the  house,  but  I  took  him  by  the 


ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI.  269 

collar  with  both  hands," — suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
• —  "  and,  says  I,  No,  you  don't  yo  so  easy."  We  are  in 
despair.  Another  policeman  has  come  along,  and 
everybody  who  has  passed  has  reported  the  row.  Even 
the  newsboys  come  and  thrust  their  inquisitive  and 
unwashed  mugs  in  between  us,  evidently  estimating 
how  much  they  are  going  to  make  out  of  the  disturb- 
ance in  a  fair  retail  of  its  detail,  while  the  reporters 
stand  waiting  at  the  corners  to  secure  the  item  that 
seems  impending.  Thus  all  seems  to  our  disturbed 
fancy,  as  we  stand  back  to  the  wall,  with  the  fist  coming 
up  before  our  eyes,  and  the  loud  and  violent  tones  in 
our  ears.  It  is  fearful  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  such 
people,  and  we  rush  from  their  presence  as  if  we 
were  the  ones  on  whom  the  real  violence,  and  not  the 
delineated,  had  been  practised.  Were  we  a  teacher  of 
elocution,  we  should  recommend  that  this  species  of 
illustrative  gesticulation  be  omitted. 


ON    THE    MISSISSIPPI. 

FATHER  of  waters  !  —  here  upon  thy  breast 

I  lay  my  head  in  trusting  confidence  ; 
Too  long  a  prey  to  terror  and  unrest, 

I  may,  thank  heaven,  banish  them  from  hence. 
How  proudly  scattereth  our  prow  aside 

The  turbid  tides,  as  vainly  on  they  sweep  ; 
And  the  good  steamer,  with  a  seeming  pride, 

Laughs  in  huge  billows  to  the  conquered  deep  ! 
But  stealing  o'er  me  like  a  misty  cloud 

Come  dreams  of  sawyers  and  perfidious  snags, 
And  many  scenes  upon  my  memory  crowd, 

At  thought  of  which  my  resolution  flags,  — 
And,  as  fears  trench  on  confidence  and  trust, 
I  quake  to  think,  what  if  the  biler  bust', 
23* 


270  MRS.    PARTINGTON   AT   SARATOGA. 


MKS.    PARTINGTON    AT    SARATOGA 

"  EVERY  back  is  fitted  for  its  burden,"  said  Mrs.  Par- 
tington,  as  she  stood  by  the  Congress  Spring,  from 
which  one  had  just  emptied  the  eighth  tumbler  down 
his  spacious  gullet,  "  and  every  stomach  for  its  portion. 
Heaven,  that  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  I 
dare  say  will  likewise  also  temper  the  water  to  their 
compassity  to  bear  it ;  for  we  read  that  Apollos  shall 
water,  and  that  the  increase  will  be  given,  which  must 
mean  Saratoga  water,  and  the  increase  the  debility  to 
hold  it,  though  how  folks  can  make  a  mill-race  of  their 
elementary  canal  is  more  than  I  can  see  into."  Roger 
stood  looking  at  the  victim,  as  tumbler  after  tumbler 
disappeared,  when  he  turned  round  to  Mrs.  Partington, 
and  asked  her  if  she  remembered  what  Macbeth  said  to 
the  Fifer,  in  the  play.  She  could  n't  recall  the  name  of 
Macbeth,  but  remembered  having  heard  the  name  of 
Macaboy  somewhere  mentioned.  He  told  her  that  the 
remark  alluded  to  applied  to  the  scene  then  enacting ; 
for  the  hard  drinkers  seemed  to  be  saying,  by  their 
acts,  "  Damned  be  he  who  first  cries,  Hold  enough."  — 
"  I  think  they  all  hold  too  much,"  remarked  the  dame. 
Roger  nodded,  and  smiled,  saying,  "  And  need  damming, 
too."  Ike  stood  watching  the  boy  who  drew  up  the 
water,  pocketing  the  half-dimes  so  coolly,  and  wondered 
what  he  was  going  to  buy  with  all  his  money,  thinking 
how  he  could  make  it  fly,  if  he  had  it.  He  had  invested 
all  his  available  funds  in  red  crackers,  and  had  n't  a  cent 
to  bless  himself  with. 


A   PICTURE.  271 


A    PICTURE. 

THERE  's  a  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side, 
Within  the  sound  of  its  rippling  tide  ; 
Its  walls  are  gray  with  the  mosses  of  years, 
And  its  roof  all  crumbly  and  old  appears  ; 
But  fairer  to  me  than  a  castle's  pride 
Is  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

The  little  low  hut  was  my  natal  nest, 

Where  my  childhood  passed  —  life's  spring-time  blest ; 

Where  the  hopes  of  ardent  youth  were  formed, 

And  the  sun  of  promise  my  young  heart  warmed. 

Ere  I  threw  myself  on  life's  swift  tide, 

And  left  the  dear  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  old  hut,  in  lowly  guise, 
Was  lofty  and  grand  to  my  youthful  eyes  ; 
And  fairer  trees  were  ne'er  known  before 
Than  the  apple-trees  by  the  humble  door, 
That  my  father  loved  for  their  thrifty  pride, 
Which  shadowed  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  low  hut  had  a  glad  hearth-stone, 
That  echoed  of  old  with  a  pleasant  tone, 
And  brothers  and  sisters,  a  merry  crew, 
Filled  the  hours  with  pleasure  as  on  they  flew. 
But  one  by  one  have  the  loved  ones  died 
That  dwelt  in  the  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

The  father  revered  and  the  children  gay 

The  grave  and  the  world  have  called  away, 

But  quietly  all  alone  there  sits 

By  the  pleasant  window,  in  summer,  and  knite, 

An  aged  woman,  long  years  allied 

With  the  little  low  hut  by  the  river's  side. 

That  little  old  hut  to  the  lonely  wife 
Is  the  cherished  stage  of  her  active  life  ; 
Each  scene  is  recalled  in  memory's  beam, 
As  she  sits  by  the  window  in  pensive  dream, 
And  joys  and  woes  roll  back  like  a  tide, 
In  that  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 


272  JOB   A   DRUMMER. 

My  mother  !  —  alone  by  the  river's  side. 

She  waits  for  the  flood  of  the  heavenly  tide, 

And  the  voice  that  shall  thrill  her  heart  with  its  call, 

To  meet  once  more  with  the  dear  ones  all, 

And  form  in  a  region  beatified 

The  band  that  once  met  by  the  river's  side. 

That  dear  old  hut  by  the  river's  side 
With  the  warmest  pulse  of  my  heart  is  allied, 
And  a  glory  is  over  its  dark  walls  thrown 
That  statelier  fabrics  have  never  known  ; 
And  I  still  shall  love,  with  a  fonder  pride, 
That  little  old  hut  by  the  river's  side. 
JVbr.,  1857. 


JOB    A    DRUMMER. 

THERE  was  a  lecture  preached  in  the  little  brick 
school-house,  when  Mrs.  Partington  lived  in  Beanville, 
upon  the 'natural  and  practical  application  of  the  Gospel. 
The  old  lady,  who  all  her  life  long  had  attended  at  the 
Old  North  Church,  looked  upon  the  discourse  with  sus- 
picion, and  watched  the  preacher  with  much  jealousy,  in 
hopes  of  catching  him  tripping.  At  last  he  spoke  of 
the  book  of  Job,  commending  its  grandeur  and  great 
beauty  of  thought,  but  saying  that  he  regarded  Job  as 
simply  a  drama.  The  old  lady  was  near  the  door,  and 
as  she  heard  this  she  immediately  arose  and  left  the 
house,  saying,  with  a  warmth  scarcely  in  keeping  with 
her  character, —  but  religious  prejudice,  even  in  the 
best,  will  induce  a  queer  feeling,  and  we  would  throw 
this  pen  into  the  fire  rather  than  pretend  that  Mrs.  Par- 
wngton  was  perfect, —  "  Well,  well,  I  wonder  what  he  '11 
Bay  next?  What  a  presentiment  from  a  pulpit  where  the 
Gospel  has  been  so  long  dispensed  with  ! " — "  What 's  the 
matter,  mem?"  asked  old  Mr.  Jones,  who  ran  against  the 
dame  as  he  was  going  in,  reminding  one  of  the  concus- 


A   SLIGHT   MISCONCEPTION.  273 

eion  of  the  irresistible  and  immovable  bodies,  —  "  what  'a 
the  matter?  what's  broke?"  —  feeling  round  012  the 
ground  for  his  specs,  which  had  been  knocked  off  by  the 
collision.  — "  Why,"  said  she,  pulling  down  her  cap- 
border,  which  had  been,  like  her  temper,  a  little  dis- 
turbed, "  why,  he  has  just  said  that  Job  was  n't  nothing 
but  a  drummer ;  and  if  that  is  n't  blastphemy,  I  should 
like  to  know  what  is." — "  Did  you  judge,  from  the  tenor 
of  his  remark,  that  Job  was  a  bass  drummer  ? "  said 
Jones,  at  the  same  moment. — "No,"  replied  she,  "but 
the  remark  was  very  base."  Mr.  Jones  laughed,  and 
the  dame  greatly  wondered  thereat,  deeming  that  he  was 
yet,  as  she  said  to  herself,  "  in  the  intents  of  wickedness." 


A    SLIGHT    MISCONCEPTION. 

"  THERE  's  where  the  boys  fit  for  college,"  said  the 
Professor  to  Mrs.  Partington,  pointing  to  the  High- 
School  house.  —  "Did  they?"  said  the  old  lady,  with 
animation  ;  "  and,  if  they  fit  for  college  before  they  went 
there,  did  n't  they  fight  afterwards  ?  "  —  "  Yes,"  said  he, 
smiling,  and  favoring  the  conceit ;  "  yes,  but  the  fight 
was  with  the  head,  and  not  with  the  hands."  —  "  Butted, 
did  they?"  said  the  old  lady,  persistently.  —  "I  mean," 
continued  he,  "  that  they  wrestled  with  their  studies, 
and  went  out  of  college  to  be  our  ministers  and  doc- 
tors." "  Ah  ! "  said  she,  "  I  never  knew  that  people  had 
to  rastle  to  be  ministers  and  doctors  before."  They 
moved  on,  Mrs.  Partington  pondering  the  new  idea,  and 
Ike  and  Lion  striving  for  the  possession  of  the  old  lady's 
umbrella. 

18 


274  STORY   OF   FRAZER'S   RIVER. 


STORY    OF    FRAZER'S    RIVER: 

BEVEALINQ    THE  FATE   OF   A   MAN   WHO    INDULGED   IN    FLUIDS   TO   WHICH   H* 
WAS   NOT  ACCUSTOMED. 

(The  story  was  told  in  the  California  papers,  on  the  authority  of  a  German  Doctor,  that 
a  man  at  Frazer's  River  drank  some  water  that  he  found  in  the  quartz  rock,  and  was 
urned  to  stone.] 

I  FEEL  a  shiver 
Come  over  my  frame  at  the  very  name 

Of  auriferous  Frazer's  River, 
Where  gold  in  lumps  as  big  as  a  biggin 
Is  lying  all  round  awaiting  the  digging  ; 

Where  they  pick  the  locks 

Of  crystalline  rocks, 
Such  fabulous  riches  showing, 

That  men  to-day  in  seedy  sorrow 

May  homeward  go,  elate,  to-morrow 
With  pockets  overflowing  ; 
And  this  is  the  reason  why  I  shiver 
At  tidings  brought  from  Frazer's  River : 

Onesimus  Guile 

Had  made  his  pile 

In  a  very  inconsiderable  while ; 

But  the  weather  was  good, 

And  the  nuggets  were  whoppers, 

And  Guile  always  stood 

To  look  after  the  coppers  ; 
And  so,  his  greed  growing  stronger  and  stronger, 

He  said  to  himself, 

As  I  'm  in  for  the  pelf, 
I  might  as  well  tarry  a  little  while  longer  ;  — 

A  little  more  rhino 

Will  not  hurt  me,  I  know, 
And  while  Fortune  is  kind  I  '11  engage  her, 

Men's  iavor  I  '11  win 

With  my  surplus  of  tin, 

And  though  I  'm  a  miner  —  he  gave  a  grin— 
t  can  hold  up  my  head  like  a  major. 

Then  he  went  to  his  raking 
And  rocking  and  shaking, 
With  weary  brain  and  body  aching, 
Toiling  on,  if  sleeping  or  waking, 


STORY  OF  FRAZER'S  RIVER.  275 

Not  a  moment  of  comfort  taking, 

His  hope  of  home  for  the  time  forsaking, 

In  wet  weather  soaking,  in  hot  weather  baking, 

To  add  to  his  earthly  riches  ; 
Digging  and  delving  early  and  late, 
Scratching  the  soil  with  an  anxious  pate, 
Running  a  muck  with  a  golden  fate, 

Wearing  out  body  and  —  boots. 
Just  the  same  as  your  millionaire, 
Who  asks  at  first  but  a  moderate  share, 
And  takes  for  his  motto  old  Agar's  prayer, 

But,  as  his  wealth  increases, 
He  cannot  fix  on  a  quantum  suf., 
And  never  knows  when  he  has  enough, 
His  greed  being  made  of  elastic  stuff, 

That  in  its  stretch  ne'er  ceases. 

As  he  picked  his  way, 

On  a  subsequent  day, 

A  boulder  of  quartz  before  him  lay, 
His  greedy  eyes  making  richer  ; 

One  sturdy  blow 

He  gave  it,  when,  lo  ! 

A  stream  of  water  from  it  did  flow, 
As  though  poured  out  from  a  pitcher. 
As  clear  as  crystal,  and  icy  cold, 
'T  was  a  very  charming  stream  to  behold, 

And  Guile  stood  still,  enchanted ; 
For  sparkling  water,  clear  and  bright, 
Is  ever  a  source  of  true  delight ; 
It  comes  to  us  in  dreams  of  night, 
When  our  lips  are  dry  and  parched  and  white, 
And  fever,  like  a  hideous  sprite, 

Our  sleeping  hours  has  haunted  ;  — 
Though  many  there  be  who  are  better  suited 
To  have  the  water  a  little  diluted  ! 
Guile  bowed  his  head  to  the  mystical  pool, 
And  tasted  its  waters  pure  and  cool, 

Then  drank  till  he  felt  satiety  ; 
Saying  that,  though  from  quartz  it  came, 
There  was  n't  in  it  the  baleful  flame, 
The  burning  and  abiding  shame, 
That  flowed  from  a  source  with  a  similar  name, 


276  STORY  OF  FRAZER'S  RIVER. 

That  tripped  the  heels  of  sobriety, 
A  wild,  agrarian,  levelling  thing, 
A  jet  from  an  infernal  spring, 

That  flowed  to  plague  society  ! 
But  soon  he  felt  he  had  drunk  too  deep  : 
A  cold  chill  over  his  frame  did  creep, 
His  eyelids  drooped  with  a  sense  of  sleep, 

And  he  yielded  to  its  action  ; 
He  slept,  but  over  his  sleep  there  stole 
A  spirit  power  of  dread  and  dole, 
That  quenched  the  flame  of  his  being's  coal, 
And  changed  poor  Guile  from  a  living  soul 

To  a  thing  of  petrifaction  ! 
To  rouse  him  his  mates  tried  all  their  deviceg, 

But  vain  did  they  strive 

And  drive  and  contrive, 
He  was  stiff  as  a  saint  in  the  temple  of  lauu 
***** 

They  carved  him  up 

In  goblet  and  cup, 
In  pipes  and  folders  and  handles, 

In  bracelets  rare, 

And  combs  for  the  hair, 
And  sticks  for  holding  candles  ; 

His  wife  wore  his  chin 

As  a  cameo  pin, 
And  earrings  wrought  from  his  toes  ; 

His  fingers  were  sought, 

Into  chess-men  wrought, 
And  a  paper-weight  made  of  his  nose  ! 
Till  never  was  known  in  the  world  before 
A  case  where  a  man  went  into  more 

Extensive  distribution, 
Or  where,  if  he  should  claim  his  own, 
The  chances  would  be  fainter  shown 

Of  getting  restitution  ; 
And  this  is  why  I  always  shiver 
To  hear  the  name  of  Frazer's  River. 


HABITS.  277 

HABITS. 

THE  force  of  habit  is  very  great.  It  becomes,  after  a 
while,  our  second  nature ;  and  it  is  very  unfortunate 
that  the  habits  are  so  often  wrong,  leading  us,  almost  in 
our  own  despite,  to  believe  the  dogma  of  man's  innate 
depravity.  We  are  bigots  from  habit,  inebriates  from 
habit,  gluttons  from  habit,  swearers  from  habit,  —  there 
is  no  need  of  extending  the  list.  How  subtly  habit 
steals  upon  us  !  We  laugh  at  the  caution  which  would 
save  us,  and  take  the  first  step  in  sin,  that  leads  to  the 
plunge  down  the  abyss  from  which  there  is  scarcely  an 
escape.  How  we  pet  our  habits,  and  palliate  them,  and 
justify  them !  They  get  their  hold  upon  us  through  an 
inefficient  will,  which  in  itself  is  a  habit.  The  will 
should  be  cultivated  and  strengthened,  as  much  as  the 
body  and  mind ;  but  habit,  at  the  very  outset,  says  the 
will  of  the  child  must  be  crushed  out.  It  should  be 
encouraged,  rather,  and  directed  to  its  proper  end.  With 
stout  will  and  resolution,  we  may  throw  off  or  resist 
habit;  but  without,  it  holds  us  with  hooks  of  steel.  It 
is  unfortunate  to  know  that  more  than  half  of  our  time 
is  spent  in  repenting  of  habits  contracted  during  the 
other  and  better  half;  and  more  unfortunate  to  think 
that  our  own  habits  have,  by  example,  involved  others 
in  the  same  habits.  In  vain  we  say,  "  Get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan  !  "  if  we  have  not  the  back-bone  to  command 
it.  Satan  laughs  at  us,  and  treats  us  contemptuously 
every  way ;  for  we  are  weak,  and  Satan  is  strong.  We 
may  make  loud  protestations  at  high  twelve  in  prayer- 
meeting,  for  we  are  courageous  with  the  multitude ;  but 
when  left  to  ourselves,  and  our  own  weakness,  like  Peter 
on  the  water,  we  sink, 
24 


278  CHECKERS.  —  GRAMMAR. 

CHECKERS. 

WE  often  hear  about  life's  "  checkered  scenes," 

And  every  man's  experience  owns  the  same, 
And  this  is  what  the  trite  expression  means  : 

The  world  "s  a  checker-board  and  life 's  the  game. 
The  men  are  placed  when  we  sit  down  to  play, 

The  rows  unbroken,  and  we  boldly  move, 
But  oft  disaster  marks  the  first  essay, 

And,  pushing  blindly  on,  we  losers  prove. 
Let  us  be  wary,  watching  close  the  board, 

Looking  for  traps  that  may  on  us  be  sprung  — 
For  fate  propitious  cannot  be  restored, 

If  lost  the  vantage  when  the  game  is  young. 
Through  vigilance  alone  we  ever  win 
O'er  those  shrewd  players,  Appetite  and  Sin. 


GRAMMAR. 

u  PEOPLE  may  say  as  much  as  they  please  about  tne 
excellence  of  the  schools,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  very 
terribly,  "  but,  for  my  part,  I  think  they  are  no  better 
than  they  ought  to  be.  Why,  do  you  know,"  continued 
she,  in  a  big  whisper,  "  that  Isaac's  teacher  has  actually 
been  giving  him  instruction  in  vulgar  fractions  ?  "  She 
took  off  her  spectacles  and  rubbed  the  glasses,  in  her 
excitement  putting  them  on  bottom  side  up.  The  charge, 
we  admitted,  was  a  just  one.  "  Yes,"  continued  she, 
brightening  up  for  a  new  charge,  like  a  slate  beneath 
the  action  of  a  wet  sponge,  "  yes,  and  see  what  other 
things  they  learn,  about  moods  and  pretences  and  all 
sorts  of  nonsense.  Gracious  knows  we  learn  moods 
enough  without  going  to  school,  and  as  for  pretences 
we  find  enough  of  them  outside.  There  are  too  many 
pretenders  in  the  schools  and  out  of 'em,  without  trying 
to  make  any  more."  She  was  provoked  because  Ike 
did  n't  get  the  medal  for  his  splendid  composition  on  the 
"  American  Eagle." 


FEELING.  —  AN   IMPOSTOB.  279 

FEELING. 

A  LECTUEEB  once  claimed  for  feeling  the  whole  of 
the  qualities  that  characterized  all  the  senses  as  they  are 
distinguished  by  the  old  dogma.  He  argued  that 
through  the  eyes,  ears,  palate,  nose,  all  arrived  at  the 
sensorium,  and  hence  were  feeling.  And  there  was 
truth  and  beauty  in  it ;  for  what  were  all  those  open 
doors  to  consciousness,  if  the  feeling  were  wanting  to 
give  the  glow  to  beauty,  or  the  melody  to  song,  or  the 
perfection  to  art?  We  see  many  living  illustrations  of 
the  truth  of  this  in  the  world,  in  whom  feeling  lies  an 
uncultivated  thing,  withering  in  the  air  of  frigid  indif- 
ference. They  are  called  heartless  people,  which  is  very 
expressive  ;  and  we  feel  chilled  by  contact  with  them,  as 
though,  in  our  summerish  feeling,  a  breeze  from  over  an 
iceberg  had  fanned  us. 


AN    IMPOSTOR. 

"  TBUTH  is  stranger  than  friction,"  said  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton,  as  she  listened  to  one  who  came  to  her  with  a  fear- 
ful story  of  incredible  calamity.  "  I  'm  not  nat'rally 
incredible ;  but,  if  you  had  n't  told  the  story  yourself,  I 
should  n't  have  given  credulity  to  it.  You  7d  better  go 
to  the  society  for  the  prevention  of  porpoises ;  for  they 
are  very  malevolent,  and  might  give  you  something  to 
do."  How  thankful  the  individual  seemed  to  feel  at  her 
kindness ;  and  he  went  oif  invoking  blessings  upon  her, 
though  she  marvelled  very  much  to  see  him  go  in  an 
opposite  direction  from  that  she  had  indicated.  The 
something  to  do  had  evidently  staggered  him. 


280 


MESMERISM   AND  MATHIMONY 


MESMERISM    AND    MATRIMONY. 

OR,   SCIENCE   VERSUS   WIDOW. 

MARTIN  SPEED  was  a  bachelor.  He  had  backed  ana 
filled,  and  hesitated  and  doubted  about  entering  upon 
the  "blissful  estate"  of  matrimony,  until  the  fire  of 
youthful  passion  was  all  spent,  and  matrimony  had  be- 
come a  problem  to  him  as  dry  and  formal  as  one  in  old 
Walsh's  arithmetic  ;  to  be  ciphered  out  for  an  answer, 
as  much  as  that  proposition  about  carrying  the  fox, 
goose,  and  bag  of  corn,  across  the  creek,  that  every- 
body "  problemly  "  remembers.  Being  a  phrenologist, 
he  left  the  province  of  hearts  altogether,  and  went 
to  examining  heads,  to  ascertain  by  craniological  devel- 
opments a  woman's  fitness  for  the  position  of  a  wife  to 
Martin  Speed,  Esq.,  as  letters  came  addressed  to  him  at 
the  Speedwell  post-office.  The  town  of  Speedwell  was 
named  for  an  ancestor  of  his,  and  boasted  of  several 
thousands  of  inhabitants  ;  and,  as  it  was  a  factory  place, 
it  had  a  goodly  share  of  good-looking  marriageable  girls. 

Martin  studied  Combe  and  Spurzheim  and  Gall,  and 
grew  bitter  as  disappointment  saw  him  enter  his  forty- 
first  year  a  bachelor.  He  looked  back  on  the  past, 
and  saw  the  chances  he  had  neglected,  and  the  happi- 
ness of  those  who  had  started  with  him,  and  were  now 
portly  people,  the  heads  and  fronts  of  families  ;  and  the 
delicate  damsels  he  had  slighted,  respected  mothers  in 
Israel,  and  exemplary  and  amiable  wives.  He  sought 
every  opportunity  for  examining  the  heads  of  such  as 
would  submit  themselves  to  his  hand  with  a  hope  of 
catching  the  bachelor ;  for  they  knew  his  weakness,  and 
he  was  well-to-do  and  an  eligible  match.  But  in  vain 
he  looked  for  perfection.  The  bumps  would  not  be 
arranged  as  he  wished  them.  If  he  took  a  liking  to  a 


MESMERISM   AND   MATRIMONY.  281 

pretty  face,  phrenology  impertinently  gave  it  the  lie 
straight,  and  he  at  once  avoided  it. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  a  biological  lecturer  — 
a  grave  professor  in  that  science  —  came  to  Speed' 
well  and  gave  a  series  of  exhibitions.  These  Martin 
attended,  and  biology  at  once  became  an  "  intensity  " 
with  him, — a  "  new  emotion."  He  attended  all  the 
exhibitions  ; — saw  men  personate  roosters  and  crow; 
hens  and  scratch;  shiver  with  cold  or  burn  with 
heat,  at  the  will  of  the  operator  ;  saw  a  miser  endeavor 
to  clutch  an  eagle  held  out  to  him  while  under  the  influ. 
ence  of  the  wonderful  spell,  and  the  tongue  of  a  woman 
stilled  who  for  twenty  years  had  been  the  pest  of  Speed- 
well by  her  loquacity. 

This  put  the  mind  of  Martin  on  a  new  track.  He  sold 
his  old  phrenological  works,  and  devoted  himself  to  the 
study  of  the  wonderful  science  through  which  such 
marvels  were  performed.  The  professor  was  a  fine 
teacher,  and  Martin  placed  himself  under  his  tuition. 
He  succeeded  admirably.  In  a  short  time  he  sur- 
passed his  instructor,  and  had  more  than  his  powers 
in  influencing  the  susceptible  among  his  weak  brethren 
and  sisters. 

He  formed  a  resolution  to  himself,  that  through  this 
means  he  would  gain  a  wife.  Could  he  find  one  that 
his  science  could  control,  —  one  that  at  a  glance  he 
could  transfix,  like  the  man  who  was  stopped  by  the 
mesmerizer  half-way  down,  as  he  was  falling  from  the 
roof  of  a  house,  —  he  would  marry  her  ;  for  the  reason, 
dear  reader,  that  Martin  had  not  married,  was  that  he 

had  heard  of  wives  wearing  the authority  over 

their  lords,  and  he  was  a  timid  man.  In  this  new  sci- 
tuce  he  saw  security,  and  sedulously  sought  for  ono  of 
24* 


282  MESMERISM   AND   MATRIMONY. 

the  right  description.  At  every  party  where  he  was 
invited,  at  every  sewing-circle,  at  every  knot  of  factory 
girls  in  which  he  mingled  in  the  summer  evenings,  he 
tried  his  art,  but  without  success.  At  last,  when  on  the 
point  of  despairing,  accident  gave  what  he  had  failed 
of  obtaining  by  earnest  seeking.  A  widow  —  danger- 
ous to  bacheloric  peace,  as  edged  tools  are  to  the 
careless  hands  of  the  inexperienced  —  came  to  the 
village  on  a  visit.  The  weeds  had  not  been  removed 
that  marked  her  bereavement,  and  the  merest  touch  of 
melancholy  rested  on  her  brow ;  but  her  eye  was  laugh- 
ing, and  a  sweet  curl  strayed  away  and  lay  like  a  chis- 
elled eddy  upon  the  marble  of  her  cheek.  She  had  a 
jewel  on  her  hand,  and  the  black  dress  she  wore  was 
cut  judiciously,  —  the  milliner  that  cut  it  had  been  a 
widow  herself,  and  knew  how  to  manage  such  matters, 
—  showing  a  beautiful  white  shoulder,  and  revealing  a 
bust  of  rare  loveliness. 

Martin  met  the  widow  at  the  residence  of  a  friend, 
and  liked  her.  He  had  never  seen  so  prepossessing  a 
woman,  he  thought.  But  she  had  buried  one  husband, 
and  that  was  rather  a  drawback.  One  visit  led  to  an- 
other, the  liking  still  increasing,  until  he  broached  tho 
subject  of  biology,  with  a  wish  fervently  felt  that  this 
might  be  the  woman  he  sought.  She  was  fully  ac- 
quainted with  it,  and,  in  answer  to  his  question  if  she 
was  susceptible  to  its  influence,  she  replied  that  she 
did  n't  know,  but  was  willing  to  have  the  fact  tested. 
"What  a  position  for  Martin  !  Seated  by  her  side  on  a 
sofa,  with  her  hand  laid  in  his,  her  rich  dark  eyes  rest- 
ing upon  his  with  a  look  equal  to  that  which  the  widow 
Wadman  poured  into  those  of  the  unsuspecting  Toby,  in 
the  stillness  of  a  summer  evening  !  But  science  held 
him  secure,  and  his  nerves  were  calm  as  the  summer 


MESMERISM  AND   MATRIMONY.  283 

day  of  that  evening.  By  and  by  the  beautiful  lids 
drooped,  the  head  bent  gently  forward,  and  the  widow, 
with  a  sweet  smile  upon  her  lips,  lay  fast  asleep.  Mar- 
tin could  have  shouted  "  Eureka,"  in  his  delight  at  the 
discovery.  Now  his  pulse  quickened,  and  he  stooped 
to  kiss  the  lips  that  lay  unresisting  before  him  ;  but  he 
did  n't.  By  the  exercise  of  his  power  he  awakened  her, 
and  she  was  much  surprised  at  being  caught  napping, 
and  blushed  at  the  strangeness  of  it ;  and  blushed  more 
when  Martin  told  her  how  he  had  been  tempted,  and 
how  gloriously  he  had  resisted ;  and  laughed  a  little 
when  she  slapped  his  cheek  with  her  fingers  as  he  took 
pay  from  the  widow's  lips  for  his  self-denial,  and  went 
home  half  crazy  with  joy  at  his  new-found  treasure, 
more  like  a  boy  of  nineteen  than  a  matured  gentleman 
of  forty. 

Every  night  found  him  a  visitor  at  the  widow's,  and 
every  night  the  success  of  the  science  was  proved,  until 
by  a  mere  look  or  a  wave  of  the  hand  the  beautiful 
widow  became  a  subject  to  his  will,  and  he  became  at 
the  same  time  a  subject  to  hers.  She  was  such  a  splen- 
did creature,  too  !  You  would  not  find  in  a  long  jour- 
ney another  fairer,  or  more  intelligent,  or  more  virtuous. 
The  question  might  be  asked,  which  magnetism  was  the 
most  pleasant  or  most  powerful,  his  or  hers.  But  he 
thought  only  of  his  own,  not  deeming  that  he  was  in 
a  spell  more  powerful,  that  was  irrevocably  binding 
him.  What  could  an  old  bachelor  know  of  such  a 
tiling  ? 

This  state  of  things  grew  to  a  crisis,  at  last,  and  Mar- 
tin formally  proposed  to  the  widow  that  the  two  should 
be  made  one,  by  the  transmutation  of  the  church.  To 
this  she  assented  ;  and  it  was  announced  soon  after,  to 
the  astonishment  of  all,  that  Martin  Speed  had  married 


U84  MESMERISM  AND  MATRIMONY. 

the  widow  Goode.  The  punster  of  the  village  made 
a  notable  pun  about  Good-Speed,  at  which  people 
laughed  very  much ;  and  the  editor  of  one  of  the 
papers,  who  was  a  very  funny  man,  put  it  in  print. 

It  happened,  shortly  after  the  marriage,  that  they  had 
a  famous  party,  and  some  of  the  guests  bantered  Martin 
about  his  marriage,  upon  which  he  told  them  of  the 
manner  it  came  about.  They  were  a  little  incredulous, 
and  he  volunteered  to  give  them  some  specimens  of  his 
remarkable  power  over  his  wife.  She  was  in  another 
room  attending  to  some  female  friends,  when  he  called 
her  to  him.  She  came  obediently,  and  he  asked  her  to 
sit  down,  which  she  did.  He  took  her  hand  and  looked 
into  her  eyes,  to  put  her  to  sleep.  Her  eyes  were  wide 
open,  and  a  lurking  spirit  of  mischief  looked  out  of 
them  broadly  into  his.  He  waved  his  hands  before 
them,  but  they  remained  persistently  open.  He  bent 
the  force  of  his  will  to  their  subjugation,  but  it  was  of 
no  use. 

"  Mr.  Speed,"  said  she,  laughing,  "  I  don't  believe 
the  magnetism  of  the  husband  is  equal  to  that  of  the 
lover ;  or,  perhaps,  science  and  matrimony  are  at 
war." 

She  said  this  in  a  manner  to  awaken  a  strong  suspi- 
cion in  his  mind  that  she  had  humbugged  him,  and  had 
never  been  put  to  sleep  at  all.  His  friends,  as  friends  will 
when  they  fancy  a  poor  fellow  has  got  into  a  hobble, 
laughed  at  him,  and  told  the  story  all  round  the  village. 
For  months  he  was  an  object  of  sport  to  everybody. 
People  would  make  passes  over  each  other  as  he  passed, 
and  women  would  shut  their  eyes  and  look  knowing. 
But,  whether  his  power  had  gone  or  not,  hers  remained; 
and  he  cared  not  a  fig  for  their  laughing,  for  he  was 
happy  in  the  beautiful  spell  of  affection  which  she  threw 


THE  OLD   NOETH  MILL-POND.  285 

over  him,  that  bound  him  as  a  chain  of  flowers.  The 
attempt  to  close  her  eyes  was  never  repeated,  for  he 
was  too  glad  to  see  them  open  to  wish  to  lose  sight  of 
them.  Life  with  Speed  sped  well,  and  Martin  became 
a  father  in  time.  He  never  regretted  the  expedient  he 
adopted  to  get  his  wife,  though  he  never  could  make 
out  exactly  whether  she  humbugged  him  or  not. 


THE    OLD    NORTH    MILL-POND. 

RIPPLING,  rippling  on  memory's  shore, 
Comes  the  sound  of  waters  evermore,    - 
Comes  in  the  dreams  of  quiet  night, 
Comes  in  the  day's  effulgent  light, 
Comes  with  the  thoughts  of  years  bygone, 
Thrilling  my  heart  with  its  monotone,  — 
Thrilling  my  heart  with  emotions  fond, 
As  I  think  of  the  dear  old  North  Mill-Pond. 

There  are  lakes  which  glow  'neath  warmer  skies, 
There  are  waves  which  shine  in  grander  guise, 
There  are  mightier  seas  and  loftier  streams 
Than  this  meandering  through  my  dreams ; 
But  none  with  me  have  a  stronger  claim 
Than  the  humble  one  with  its  humble  name, 
That  has  drawn  my  muse  from  its  flight  beyond, 
To  bathe  its  wings  in  the  North  Mill-Pond. 

I  've  passed  far  on  life's  devious  track,  — 
Onward,  still  onward,  but,  looking  back, 
O'er  a  weary  landscape  of  cares  and  tears, 
A  boy  by  a  silvery  stream  appears, 
"Who  smiles  as  he  stands  in  the  sun's  bright  ray 
As  /  smiled  in  glad  boyhood's  day, 
Ere  the  bitter  lesson  of  life  I  conned, 
And  left  the  side  of  the  North  Mill-Pond. 


286  THE   OLD   NORTH   MILL-POND. 

0,  blessed  alchemy  of  youth, 

That  holdest  the  mirror  up  to  truth, 

Bnd  all  that  makes  the  young  heart  blest     • 

Is  on  the  polished  plate  impressed  ; 

Each  scene  by  young  affection  traced 

Is  vivid  still  and  undefkced. 

Drawing  me  back  with  a  loving  bond 

Again  to  the  bank  of  the  North  Mill-Pond. 

The  grave-yard  lies  o'er  the  water  blue, 
The  old  grave-yard  which  my  boyhood  knew ; 
The  white  stones  gleam  by  the  hillock  green, 
And  nameless  mounds  strew  the  space  between  ; 
And  sweetly  they  rest  in  their  dreamless  sleep 
Whom  the  graves  in  their  motherly  bosoms  keep, 
Recalled  and  held  in  affection  foiid 
As  they  rest  by  the  side  of  the  North  Mill-Pond. 

'T  was  beautiful,  when  the  eve  was  still, 
To  list  to  the  drone  of  the  distant  mill, 
As  it  rose  and  fell  on  the  summer  air, 
In  the  dewy  darkness  resting  there  ; 
Its  tones  were  words  to  my  youthful  ear, 
My  heart  was  soothed  with  their  better  cheer, 
And  was  borne  away  to  scenes  beyond 
The  margin  green  of  the  North  Mill-Pond. 

And  when  in  the  north  the  lightning  shone 

From  out  the  gathering  tempest's  throne, 

In  the  hush  of  the  winds  ere  they  woke  from  rest, 

To  foam  o'er  the  water's  placid  breast, 

I  loved  to  stand  mid  the  shadows  dark, 

The  muttering  thunder's  voice  to  hark, 

And  my  soul  to  its  music  did  respond, 

As  I  sat  by  the  side  of  the  North  Mill-Pond 

'T  is  here  again  with  its  early  note. 

Again  on  its  beauteous  tide  I  float ; 

I  bathe  once  more  in  its  crystal  bright, 

And  sport  with  the  skaters  in  rapid  flight ; 

And  fish  for  minnows  beneath  its  waves 

From  the  broad  flat  stone  which  the  water  laves;— 

All,  all  are  here  in  remembrance  fond, 

And  my  heart  is  glad  for  the  North  Mill-Pond. 


THE  TRUE   PHILOSOPHY.  287 

Thus  rippling,  rippling  on  memory's  shore, 

Comes  the  sound  of  waters  evermore  ! 

0,  sounds  of  delight,  my  spirit  hears 

And  treasures  the  words  of  those  distant  years,--- 

Ere  care  had  deadened  or  sorrow  pressed, 

To  ruffle  my  buoyant  bosom's  rest,  — 

When  hope  was  bright  nor  knew  despond, 

By  the  smiling  and  beautiful  North  Mill-Pond. 


THE    TRUE    PHILOSOPHY. 

UNCLE  HOPEFUL,  as  we  must  call  him,  because  he  ia 
everything  that  is  cheerful  and  happy,  was  talking  with 
us  on  the  occasion  of  his  seventieth  birth-day,  and  the 
conversation  naturally  led  to  life  and  its  uses.  "We 
could  not  avoid  asking  the  question  how  it  was  that, 
while  other  men  were  soured  by  the  cares  of  the  world, 
and  bent  over  with  their  weight,  he  had  retained  his 
elasticity  of  temper  and  body.  He  assured  us  that  he 
had  no  patent  for  his  remedy,  there  was  no  secret  in- 
volved in  it.  He  had  begun  life  with  a  determination 
to  do  right,  and  as,  in  order  to  do  right,  it  was  essential 
that  he  should  feel  right,  his  prayer  had  been  for  grace, 
a  cheerful  heart,  and  a  broader  nature.  He  had  gone 
out  into  the  world  with  this  feeling,  and  the  result  had 
been  peace.  He  had  never  quarrelled,  never  wronged 
a  man,  never  joined  a  church,  loved  God  and  men,  and 
was  now  ready  to  step  from  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time 
to  the  destiny  beyond,  unwavering  in  his  faith  that  it 
was  well  with  him.  Uncle  Hopeful  had  not  been  a  per- 
fect man,  as  the  world  understands  the  word  perfect. 
He  had  had  his  buffetings  with  Satan  in  the  form  of 
various  temptations,  from  some  of  which  encounters  he 
had  come  out  badly  hurt ;  but  the  smart  had  done  him 


288  THE  TRUE  PHILOSOPHY. 

good.  He  had  seen  in  each  temptation  a  new  lesson, 
enjoining  upon  him  the  duty  of  loving  the  tempted  and 
the  fallen,  and  the  uses  of  adversity  likewise  had  a  deep 
and  abiding  belief  in  him.  He  thanked  God  for  his 
temptation,  for  it  had  made  him  stronger ;  and  for  his 
adversity,  for  it  had  made  him  better —  had  softened  his 
heart,  and  brought  him  more  into  sympathy  with  the 
sorrowful.  "  Uncle  Hopeful,"  then  we  said,  "  what  is 
your  recipe,  in  brief,  for  a  happy  life  ?  "  The  old  man 
lifted  his  face,  as  bright  as  though  he  were  transfigured, 
and  uttered  the  words,  "  Purpose  and  work  —  an  object 
and  the  struggle  for  its  attainment." — "  Suppose  the 
object  is  money?"  we  queried. — "  That  is  disease,"  he 
eplied,  thoughtfully ;  "  the  object  should  be  the  honor 
of.  God  and  the  improvement  of  man  —  everything  else 
should  be  subordinate."  We  separated,  but  the  lesson 
went  with  us.  How  few  there  are  who  live  according 
to  Uncle  Hopeful's  idea  of  happiness  !  How  many  are 
there  now  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  life,  that  can  look 
back  along  its  path  with  the  same  satisfaction  as  Uncle 
Hopeful  ?  Measuring  life  by  its  usefulness,  he  has  lived 
more  than  seventy  years.  When  such  a  person  dies,  it 
seems  to  us  that  tears  are  the  selfish  begrudgings  of  our 
nature  of  the  rest  he  so  much  needs  after  his  long  and 
faithful  toil.  A  little  of  his  own  cheerful  philosophy 
should  give  us  joy  at  his  transit,  rather  than  sorrow. 


A  CLASSIC.  289 


A    CLASSIC. 

pThe  «tory  of  Menippus  and  the  Empusa  has  ran  together  in  the  following  craze  of 
rhyme.  Though  slightly  modernized  in  its  present  construction,  it  retains  the  peculiar 
lies  of  the  fable.] 

I  WILL  tell  you  the  tale  of  Menippus  the  Lycian, 
A  jolly  young  fellow,  but  far  from  a  rich  'un, 

Who  was  just  twenty-five 

And  the  fairest  alive, 
Who  fell  mad  in  love  with  a  charming  Phoenician. 

On  the  road  to  Cenchrea 

He  first  chanced  to  see  her, 

And  rich  as  a  Jew  did  the  damsel  appear — 
All  covered  with  jewels  and  elegant  laces, 
With  rings  and  such  things  to  add  to  her  graces, 

And  smiles  like  the  Hours' 

In  heavenly  bowers, 

That  Mahomet  held  out  for  Moslem  "  devours." 
Then  she  gave  Menippus  an  invitation 
To  visit  her  as  he  'd  inclination, 
At  her  suburban  habitation, 

Near  beautiful  Corinth  village  ; 
She  promised  him  wines  that  beat  creation, 
And  fruit  from  every  clime  and  nation. 
Besides  a  hint  at  sly  flirtation, 

And  other  delectable  pillage. 
And  then  Menippus  gave  her  his  card, 
And  swore  by  his  gods,  and  swore  very  hard, 

That  she  was  a  trump, 

And  he  was  a  gump 

If  he  didn't  at  such  opportunity  jump. 

His  amorous  flame 

Had  n't  given  her  name, 

But  this  to  Menippus  was  all  the  same, 
For  he  was  in  love,  and  lovers  we  know 
Are  the  stupidest  people  the  world  can  show. 
So  he  went  straightway  to  see  her  as  bid, 
And  she  vowed  she  loved  but  him,  she  did. 
And  she  gave  him  money  and  gave  him  wine, 
And  the  path  of  life  seemed  all  divine. 
A  precious  dream  that  would  ne'er  grow  dim, 
And  the  world  was  a  jolly  old  world  for  him, 
25  19 


290  A   CLASSIC. 

Until  Apollonius,  the  mighty  magician, 

Came  down  like  a  sluice  on  the  fair  Phoenician. 

Says  he,  "  My  sonny, 

There  's  gall  in  your  honey  — 

Look  out  for  breakers  and  bogus  money  ! 
This  lady,  whose  charms  you  delightedly  howl 
Is  —  this  in  your  ear  —  a  condemnible  ghoul. 

Empusa  hight, 

Whose  appetite 

In  things  forbidden  of  men  takes  delight ; 
Of  a  kind  who  entrap  in  their  infamous  mesh 
The  nice  young  fellows  with  tender  flesh, 
And,  pepperless,  saltless,  eat  them  fresh ! 

And  this,  my  friend, 

Will  be  your  end, 

If  you  don't  to  my  present  words  attend : 
She  only  waits  for  the  wedding-day 
To  dish  you  up  in  an  epicure  way. 

She  's  a  serpent,  a  toad, 

And  you  take  up  a  load, 

If  you  travel  with  her  the  marital  road." 
Then  young  Menippus,  scratching  his  head, 
Thus  to  the  sage  Apollonius  said : 
"  To-morrow,  old  fellow,  I  'm  to  be  wed. 
I  '11  not  be  wrecked  with  the  port  in  sight, 
You  need  n't  try  me  thus  to  fright ; 

And,  did  n't  I  think 

That  you  never  drink, 
I  'd  certainly  say  you  were  rather  tight ! 
Not  .one  word  you  've  said  is  true,  man, 
For  I  assure  you  she  's  no  such  woman  ; 

So,  as  sure  as  a  gun, 

By  to-morrow's  sun 

She  and  your  humble  servant  are  one, 

And  if  you  're  there  you  may  see  the  fun." 

The  day  shone  bright, 

And  the  bride,  all  in  white, 

Like  a  being  of  light, 

In  accustomed  garb  of  the  bride  bedight, 

Was  called  by  all  a  delectable  sight. 
And  the  men  and  maids  of  Corinth  were  there, 
To  see  that  the  nuptials  were  put  through  fair  , 


A   CLASSIC.  291 

But  just  as  the  Corinthian  minister 

Had  opened  his  head, 

And  only  said, 

"  You  twain  I  wed," 

A  voice  cried  out,  "  Yes,  over  the  sinister !  " 
When,  as  all  wondered  what  it  could  mean, 
Old  Apollonius  stepped  on  the  scene.    ' 
He  forbade  the  marriage,  and  told  them  to  stay, 
For  the  bride  was  n't  one  in  a  marrying  way — 

That  she  was  a  ghoul, 

A  being  most  foul, 
And  tying  this  knot  there  'd  be  Dickens  to  pay. 

Then  all  may  see 

What  a  row  there  must  be  — 

The  lady  raved  like  none  but  she  ; 
And  she  vowed  that  in  Tophet's  gulf  she  'd  toss  over 
Every  one  that  was  called  a  philosopher. 
But  old  Apollonius,  quite  up  to  trap, 
For  all  of  her  violence  cared  not  a  snap. 
He  told  her  he  'd  soon  cut  her  off  root  and  branch. 
If  she  did  n't  instantly  vamose  the  ranch  ; 

She  cried  and  took  on, 

And  was  loth  to  be  gone, 

But,  charged  with  her  crime,  she  admitted  the  corn  ; 

Then  passed  from  their  view, 

And  the  riches  all  flew, 

And  the  jewels  crumbled  to  ashes,  too  ; 
And  poor  Menippus,  as  we  are  told, 
Scratched  his  head  in  wonder,  and  muttered,  "  sold  " 


Youths,  don't  at  hasty  marriages  jump, 

For  every  woman  may  not  be  a  trump. 

Remember  Menippus's  lucky  escape, 

And  use  all  care  to  avoid  a  bad  scrape, 

Or  else  you  may  find  yourself,  maugre  your  groans, 

Wile-eaten  —  unfe-eaten  —  body  and  bones. 


292  BE   CONTENTED. 

BE  CONTENTED. 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  people  of  Cape  Ann  do  when 
it  rains  ?  "  one  asked  of  another.  Upon  confessing  hia 
ignorance,  he  was  informed  that  they  let  it  rain.  This 
is  the  true  philosophy.  It  is  best  not  to  fret  at  evils 
that  we  cannot  help,  or  even  for  those  that  we  might 
help;  for  fretting  does  not  better  a  thing  any.  "We 
always  admired  the  example  of  the  venerable  negro  in 
the  song,  "  whose  name  was  Uncle  Ned."  Of  him  it  is 
narrated  that  when  his  teeth  failed  him,  because  of  his 
declining  years,  and  he  could  no  longer  eat  the  corn 
bread,  he  "  let  the  corn-bread  be,"  with  charming  resig- 
nation. There  is  an  old  saying,  that  has  come  down  to 
us  from  very  remote  antiquity,  that  "  it  is  of  no  use  to 
cry  for  spilled  milk."  Fretting  shortens  life,  and  makes 
it  miserable  while  it  lasts,  tiring  sympathy  and  wearing 
out  surrounding  patience.  Fretting  wrinkles  the  skin 
like  a  baked  apple,  turns  the  aspect  to  a  glum  sourness, 
makes  the  finest"  eyes  look  wicked,  and  places  personal 
beauty  at  a  risk.  The  Sage  of  Thorndike  was  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  years  old  when  he  died,  and  at  that  age 
his  face  was  as  fair  as  an  infant's.  When  asked  the 
secret  of  this,  his  reply  was,  "  I  never  allowed  my  face 
to  pucker  with  the  wrinkles  of  fretfulness  and  ill-tem- 
per." The  saying  of  this  herbaceous  and  venerable 
sage  should  be  remembered.  Paterfamilias,  in  the  midst 
of  his  family  of  discordant  elements, —  his  antagonistic 
children  quarrelling  and  making  a  particular  hurricane 
about  his  house, —  never  frets.  He  looks  upon  them 
complacently,  counsels  the  noisiest, — that  will  hear  him, 
—  and  makes  up  his  mind  that  if  they  don't  heed  him 
they  can  let  it  alone.  Some  people  spend  much  breath 
iu  fretting  about  the  weather.  They  go  about  blowing 


WHIST.  293 

and  blurting  like  porpoises.  They  see  danger  to  the 
corn  in  the  cold  weather,  and  fret  in  anticipation  of 
short  crops  before  the  bloom  comes.  We  had  better 
take  things  as  they  come,  and  not  fret  about  them,  what- 
ever they  may  prove,  always  remembering  Mr.  Tenny, 
who  ne'er  fretted  any,  who  expressed  himself  so  indif- 
ferent as  to  his  fate  when  sick,  —  not  caring  TV  Nether  he 
lived  or  got  well. 


WHIST. 

IT  is  pleasant,  on  the  winter  evenings,  when  the  wind 
is  whistling  by  our  doors  and  rattling  our  windows,  as 
though  striving  to  get  in,  and  howling  down  chimney 
at  us  as  we  sit  by  the  fire,  to  draw  pleasantly  around 
the  table  and  read  amusing  tales  from  books,  or  indulge 
in  a  pleasant  conversation,  or,  if  a  neighbor  comes  in, 
form  a  cheerful  party  at  whist,  and  in  the  healthful  inter- 
est of  the  game  make  the  wintry  hours  pass  away  on 
rosy  wings.  Whist  is  a  great  invention  —  fashionable, 
interesting,  and  harmless.  It  forms  a  salutary  exercise 
for  the  reflective  powers  and  the  memory,  through  the 
study  of  how  to  play  and  the  constant  tax  upon  the 
mind  to  recall  what  has  been  played,  involving  the  nice 
matters  of  "  finesse  "  and  judicious  "  third-in-hand."  But 
it  should  be  played  in  silence,  in  accordance  with  its 
name  —  whist !  It  is  very  annoying  to  have  one  or  more 
of  the  select  four  buzzing  and  chattering  along  through 
the  intricacy  of  the  game,  where  attention  is  wanted,  and 
memory,  to  secure  a  triumph  —  when  the  honors  do 
not  count,  and  the  odd  trick  is  indispensable  to  going 
out.  How  vexing  it  is,  when  the  whole  turning  of  the 
contest  hangs  upon  your  partner's  third-hand-high,  to 
25* 


294:  WHIST. 

have  some  remark  induce  forgetfulness,  and  down  goes 
the  deuce,  maybe,  and  to  the  deuce  goes  the  game 
Whist !  it  is  beautiful,  when  four  sit  down  to  a  feast  of 
the  intellectual,  cut  and  shuffle  calmly,  and  coolly,  ana 
contemplatively,  without  the  intermingling  of  scandal 
or  souchong-tea  remark.  We  light  our  cigar,  we  assort 
the  cards,  we  deliberate  on  a  lead ;  we  judge  by  the  hand 
we  hold  where  the  strength  of  the  battle  lies,  and 
whether  to  draw  out  trumps  or  not.  We  do  nothing 
rashly.  It  is  science  against  science.  Charge  and  repel 
—  mine  and  countermine — plot  and  counterplot,  until 
the  strife  is  over,  to  subside  into  reminiscences  of  the 
game,  contestants  proving  on  the  ends  of  the  fingers 
that,  if  so  and  so  had  been  done,  thus  and  so  would  have 
been  the  result.  Ah,  happy  the  hours,  in  the  years  gone 
by,  spent  in  this  delightful  way  —  and  so  sinless,  so 
peaceful,  so  grateful !  The  memory,  busy  with  the  past, 
recalls  scenes  in  which  we  participated,  many  years  ago, 
before  this  mould  accrued  upon  our  beard,  and  when  the 
hair  bore  no  traces  of  accumulating  silver  —  when  the 
band  was  large  that  met  with  us  in  gladness  and  joy, 
now,  alas !  thinned  by  the  changes  of  time  and  the  vicis- 
situdes of  circumstance,  involving  separation,  and  worse 
alienation,  through  worldly  selfishness  and  the  hard- 
heartedness  that  money  brings  with  it.  Some  may  say, 
like  the  "  detestable  Jones,"  that  such  memories  are 
vain;  that  the  enjoyments  they  recall  were  frivolities 
better  forgotten;  that  sin  found  an  entrance  to  the 
soul  through  the  portals  of  easy  friendship,  and  the 
better  man  was  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  insidious  influ- 
ences of  pleasure  ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  recall  them,  never- 
theless, and  in  dreams  of  joy  enact  the  scenes  anew  that 
gave  delight  then.  Whist  thus  has,  like  Moses'  rod, 
struck  the  rock,  and  memory  has  poured  out  like  a  flood  : 


TO   A  HEEL-TAP.  295 

the  table  is  vacant ;  the  guests  have  flown ;  not  a 
pasteboard  is  to  be  seen ;  the  wind  howls  by  the  win 
dow  and  the  chimney;  and  we  sit  alone  by  the  fire 
crooning  o'er  thoughts  of  lang  syne. 


TO   A  HEEL-TAP. 

I  SING  a  heel-tap.     Not  the  like  of  what, 

When  midnight  wrapt  the  earth,  did  erst 

Wake  maddened  echoes  in  the  throngless  streets, 

And  Charleys  twirled  their  rattles  all  in  vain, 

That  dissonance  did  make  'mongst  walls  reverberate ; 

Nor  like  to  those  which  made  familiar  paths 

Most  labyrinthine  in  their  winding  way, 

And  key-holes  mystical  and  treacherous, 

Evading  all  approach  from  midnight  keys  ; 

Nor  like  to  those  which  laid  the  malty  knight 

Among  the  porcine  tenants  of  the  sty, 

Who,  when  assailed  by  snout  inquisitive, 

Did  cry,  "  Leave  tucking  up,  and  come  to  bed  I '" 

Not  such  as  these — ah,  greater  bootee  mine  ; 
A  heel-tap  it,  of  most  unquestioned  shape, 
That  lately  bore  upon  the  happy  pave 
The  fairer  half  of  man's  duality, 
Tapping  sweet  music  on  the  insensate  bricks ! 
0,  blissful  heel-tap,  such  a  weight  to  bear ! 
0,  blissful  bricks,  did  ye  but  know  your  bliss ! 
0,  muse  of  mine,  which  this  fair  tap  hath  tapped, 
And  made  to  trickle  in  harmonious  streams, 
Giving,  in  fairest  measure,  soul  for  sole ! 
I  found  thee  pronely  resting  on  the  pave, 
A  lacerated  sole — and  many  feet  did  tread 
Unheeding  by  thee,  nor  did  deign  a  glance 
Of  pity  on  thy  upturned  pleading  pegs. 
No  Levite  I  to  go  the  other  side, 
But  sympathizing  I  essay  to  heel. 
I  clasp  thee  to  my  heart,  e'en  though  thy  pegs 
Should  gnaw  my  flesh  with  their  protruding  teeth. 

What  wert  thou  ?     Say,  did  some  slight  girlish  step 
Patter  its  leathery  tattoo  by  thy  aid, 


296  OYSTERS. 

Till  sensitiveness  ached  to  hear  its  note? 

Or  did  some  matron  press  thee  with  a  weight 

That  made  thy  lot  a  burden  hard  to  bear? 

Wert  thou  a-shopping  bent,  or  churchward  bound, 

Or  aiding  charity  along  her  way, 

Or  bearing  scholarhood  to  learning's  halls? 

No  answer — well,  my  heart  gives  the  reply, 

And  pictures  all  your  silence  would  conceal. 

Ah !  she  was  lovely  as  the  month  of  May — 
The  glorious  month  of  melody  and  bloom  — 
That  poets  prate  about,  with  noses  red, 
Sitting  by  furnaces  of  Lehigh  coal ; 
Her  eyes  were  blue  as  heaven's  cerulean  deeps ; 
Her  hair  the  sort  with  which  Dan  Cupid  weaves 
The  sweetest,  strongest,  prettiest  true-love  knots ; 
Her  mouth  like  strawberries,  though  by  far  more  swe«t 
Her  teeth  more  pearly  than  those  patent  ones 
That  Cummings  shows  up  there  in  Tremont  Row ; 
Her  neck,  than  swan's  more  graceful  (not  the  Swan 
Who  makes  new  school-books  for  the  growing  age, 
And  forms  the  firm  of  Hickling,  Swan  and  Brewer)  ; 
Her  form  the  embodied  type  of  human  grace, 
That  it  were  madness  e'er  to  wish  to  clasp, 
But  which  I  'd  worship,  like  a  far-off  star, 
And  bow  in  adoration  'neath  its  beams ! 

No  more !    Imagination  faints  to  draw, 
And  reason  whispers  in  the  other  ear — 
The  sinister — through  whose  weak  portals  pass 
All  words  of  ill,  and  all  vile  slanderous  things — 
"  What  if  this  goddess  you  have  drawn  were  BLACK?" 


OYSTERS. 

REGARDING  oysters,  these  delightful  esculents  enter  so 
largely  into  the  comforts  and  happinesses  of  life,  that  a 
word  in  their  praise  may  not  be  amiss.  No  entertain- 
ment is  complete  without  oysters.  Men  bet  oysters ; 
women  dote  upon  oysters  ;  children  cry  for  oysters. 
Before  the  softening  influence  of  oysters,  human  auster- 


OYSTERS.  297 

ty  bends,  and  kindness  irradiates  features  before  dark 
with  clouds.  Their  odor  is  grateful  to  the  nostrils  as 
the  odor  of  virtue  is  to  the  inward  sense  ;  we  inhale 
the  steamy  and  savory  effluence  from  the  kitchen  as  a 
harbinger  of  pleasant  tastes  ;  fancy  burns  in  anticipa- 
tion of  fancy  roasts,  or  indulges  in  stupendous  imagin- 
ings of  stews,  and  poesy  winds  its  shell  —  an  oyster 
shell  —  in  sounding  the  praise  of  oysters.  Ruddy 
Margaret,  as  she  bears  the  tureen  to  the  table,  the  epi- 
curean censer,  steaming  with  holy  incense  to  the  deity 
of  appetite,  becomes  invested  with  new  interest.  She 
looks}  maugre  aer  "Cork-red"  cheeks,  angelic  amid  the 
misty  vapors  of  an  oyster-stew.  We  draw  around  the 
board,  happy  in  gustatory  anticipations,  never  to  be 
disappointed,  and  uncover  (the  oyster-dish)  in  rever- 
ence for  the  occasion,  a  meet  grace  before  oysters.  And 
participation  does  not  pall,  like  other  pleasures  ;  —  we 
ponder,  and  dream,  and  poetize,  over  our  bowl,  as  the 
ancients  did  over  their  bowl  of  wine,  and  are  as  loth 
*o  leave  it.  But  there  is  no  poison  in  this  bowl ;  no 
lend  lurking  therein  to  set  the  brain  on  fire  ;  no  brawls 
waiting  upon  it,  or  frenzy,  or  headache.  Wordsworth's 
love  of  oysters  was  remarkable  ;  and  all  who  are  familiar 
with  his  writings  will  recall  the  following  : 

Thy  history,  my  oyster,  who  may  tell  — 

Thy  antecedents,  and  thy  hopes  and  ioves  ? 

In  oozy  mud  thou  mak'st  thy  humble  bed, 

Subject  to  rakes  that  dare  its  fold  invade, 

To  drag  thee  from  thy  home,  a  sacrifice 

Unto  the  predatory  maw  of  man, 

Long  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  all  thy  kind. 

Delicious  bivalve  !  how  my  heart  expands 

As  I  thy  many  beauties  contemplate  ! 

The  cruel  knife  has  rent  thee  from  thy  shell 

—  Ah  i  what  shall  pay  such  most  inhuman  rent  ?— « 

Not  unresistisg,  and,  as  on  the  plate 


298  CALIFORNIA  TAN. 

Thou  liest,  quivering,  drowned  in  saline  tears, 
Thou  seem'st  a  fitting  subject  for  the  muse. 
The  throb  of  pity  tuggeth  at  my  heart, 
As  thus  I  view  thee  hapless,  hopeless,  lie  • 
A  love  beyond  all  words  absorbs  my  soul. 
Yes,  thou  art  lovely,  and  for  thee  e'en  now 
May  Home  lone  oyster  pine  in  lands  afar, 
Whe'.e  Old  Virginia  hides  its  teeming  beds 
Beneath  the  Chesapeake's  translucent  tides ; 
'Tis  thus  I  '11  hide  thee,  0  my  tender  one, 
And,  plunging  thee  beneath  this  acid  wave, 
With  pepper  intermixed,  and  salt  preadded, 
I  poise  thee  gently  on  my  waiting  fork, 
Gaze  for  an  instant  on  thy  pleasing  shape, 
Then  ope  my  mouth  awaiting  for  the  prize  — 
And  then  a  gulp — a  sigh — and  all  is  done. 


CALIFORNIA    TAN. 


"  So  you  Ve  been  to  Califonxy,  *  said  Mrs.  Partington, 
with  animation,  as  Smith  the  younger  returned  from 
the  land  of  gold,  with  a  new  suit  of  clothes  on  his  back, 
and  enough  hair  on  his  face  to  stuff  a  mattress  with  , 
1  so  you  've  been  to  Californy,  and  they  say  you  have 
amazed  a  fortin."  He  assured  her,  with  a  twist  of  his 
long  beard,  and  a  half-smile,  that  was  a  half-affirmative, 
that  there  was  not  a  grain  of  truth  in  it  ;  but  that  he 
had  picked  up  a  little.  "  Well,  I  'm  glad  of  it,  and,  if 
you  'ye  amazed  anything,  it  is  more  than  I  thought  you 
ever  would  ;  but  you  have  paid  terrible  dear  for  it,  if 
you  have  got  to  look  all  your  lifetime  as  bad  as  you  do 
now.  Dear  soul  !  How  terribly  you  are  tanned  !  " 
She  said  this  without  her  specs,  the  dark  hair  having 
deceived  her,  while  Ike,  more  observing,  sat  watching 
his  opening  mouth  as  he  spoke,  wondering  if  he  ever 
attempted  to  eat  anything  with  that  arrangemen 
about  it. 


A  GOUTY  MAN'S   REVERIE.  299 


A  GOUTY    MAN'S    REVERIE. 

Is  this  rheumatic  twinge,  so  industrious  at  my  knee- 
pan,  kinking  nerve  and  mind  with  its  intensified,  irra- 
diating misery,  a  devil  to  torment  me  before  my  time  '< 
The  milk  of  human  kindness,  that  erewhile  has  found  an 
abiding  place  in  me,  has  become  dried  up  by  the  fever 
of  insidious  disease,  or  soured  like  dairy-milk  by  sum- 
mer thunder.  And  there  is  that  precious  fallacy  of 
Shakespeare's  staring  me  in  the  face,  about  the  uses  of 
adversity  being  sweet.  I  can  fancy  that  this  may  be 
the  case  in  many  instances,  but  never  in  the  adversity 
that  comes  in  the  form  of  rheumatic  racks  and  thumb- 
screws. The  current  of  my  nature  is  all  turned  back 
from  its  usual  course.  Do  I  love  my  neighbor  ?  No. 
Do  I  love  society?  No.  Do  I  wish  to  make  people 
happy  ?  No.  I  would  have  a  cloud  as  black  and  opaque 
as  my  hat  envelop  everything  at  this  present  moment, 
with  no  hope  of  brightness  to-morrow.  Who  said,  Pa- 
tience ?  It 's  hackneyed,  and  infernally  unkind,  let  me 
tell  you,  to  sit  there  with  your  wholesome  limbs  encased 
in  boots,  and  tell  me  to  be  patient.  How  everything  is 
discolored  by  the  gangrene  of  one's  feelings  !  The  sun 
is  darkened  by  the  shawl  of  my  own  unhappy  spirit 
pinned  up  against  the  windows  of  day;  and  then  sweeps 
by  a  long  train  of  funereal  fancies — the  forms  of  rheum- 
atic martyrs  pass  before  me,  and  of  ancestors  who 
have  died  of  the  rheumatism,  till  I  shriek  for  respite. 
0,  for  the  spirit  of  the  past,  I  cry,  that  could,  by  laying 
on  of  hands,  impart  healthiness,  sparing  to  the  sufferer 
the  added  afflictions  of  bolus  and  embrocation  !  O, 
sweet  Hygeia,  on  one  knee  I  am  able  to  invoke  thy 
aid!  Tell  me  not,  0  man  of  strange  fancies,  that  my 
distemper  partakes  of  Parnassian  qualities  j  for  I  can 


300  IKE  AND   LION. 

now  reveal  my  genius  in  limped  feet.  I  'd  brain  thee 
did  I  deem  thou  didst  meditate  a  joke  at  such  a 
time.  A  man  not  very  long  since  published  a  book  to 
prove  that  everything  is  right  in  the  providence  of 
God,  and  not  a  wrong  or  an  evil  can  be  left  out  of  our 
lives  without  impairing  their  perfectness.  Then  may 
there  not  be  a  use  in  it,  after  all  ?  and,  if  it  be  neces- 
sary that  I  endure  a  few  paroxysms  of  pain  for  the  sake 
of  a  great  principle,  and  be  a  martyr,  • —  though,  indeed, 
ne  martyr,  a  paradox  that  I  leave  the  learned  to  con- 
strue,—  should  I  not  be  running  counter  to  Providence 
in  condemning  and  deprecating  it?  I'll  think  of  it 
in  meditative  calmness  and  red  flannel.  May  not  the 
rheumatism  be  sent  to  teach  us  how  to  rightly  prize  the 
home  qualities  of  woman,  whose  assiduous  kindness 
never  wearies  with  doing  for  us,  —  who  bears  with  the 
petulance  of  our  peevish  nature,  and  smooths  our  pil- 
low with  a  tenderness  that  commends  even  distemper 
as  a  blessing ;  and,  as  she  bends  over  us,  with  consola- 
tion in  her  eyes  and  liniment  in  her  hands,  we  hail  her 
as  our  good  angel,  and  learn  to  say,  with  tolerable 
grace,  "sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity," — alluding, 
of  course,  to  the  rheumatism. 


IKE    AND    LION. 

"  WELL,  what  upon  earth  are  you  doing  now  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Partington,  with  a  tone  of  anxiety  in  her  voice, 
and  a  large  iron  spoon  in  her  hand,  as  Lion  rushed  into 
the  kitchen,  followed  by  Ike.  The  dog  was  almost 
covered  up  with  a  thick,  coarse  coffee-bag,  and,  in  per- 
fect sympathy  with  Ike,  who  was  laughing  tremen- 
dously, he  wagged  his  caudality  as  if  he  liked  the  fun. 
"  What  upon  earth  are  you  doing  now  ?  "  was  a  ques- 


IKE  AND   LION.  30 

tion  that  called  for  an  answer  ;  and  Lion  looked  up  in 
the  old  lady's  face,  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  eyes 
glistening,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Look  at  me,  Mistress 
Ir*.,  for  I  am  all  dressed  up,  you  see."  But  he  did  n't 
say  anything.  "  That 's  a  crinoline,  aunt,"  said  Ike ; 
"  don't  you  think  it 's  very  overcoming  ?  "  —  "  Yes  ;  I 
declare,"  said  she,  "  I  think  it  comes  over  him  a  good 
deal ;  but  you  had  better  take  it  off,  for  it  makes  him 
look  very  ridiculous."  —  "  It 's  all  the  fashion,"  said 
Ike.  —  "All  the  fiddlestick!"  replied  she;  "and  how 
should  I  look  in  the  fashion,  all  hooped  up  like  a  mash- 
tub  ?  Should  n't  I  look  well  ?  No,  dear,  no.  I  don 't 
want  to  portend  to  be  more  than  I  really  am ;  and,  if  I 
have*n't  been  made  so  unanimous  as  some,  I  don't  want 
to  cast  no  reflections  on  heaven  for  not  making  me 
no  larger,  by  rigging  on  artificial  purportions.  It  used 
to  be  the  remark  of  Elder  Stick  that  every  tub  should 
stand  on  its  own  bottom ;  and,  though  this  may  n't  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  I  want  to  see  folks  jest  as  they 
are.  And  now  what  are  you  at?"  cried  she,  breaking  off 
in  her  subject  shorter  than  pie-crust ;  and  well  she  might, 
for  Lion  was  parading  the  floor  in  great  glee,  with 
one  of  the  dame's  night-caps  upon  his  head,  tied  snugly 
under  the  chin,  while  Ike  stood  looking  on,  with  great 
complacency.  "Dear  me,"  said  she,  dropping  into  a  chair, 
"  I  am  afraid  your  predestination  will  not  be  a  good  one, 
if  you  go  on  so  ;  and  little  boys  who  tease  their  aunts 
don't  go  to  heaven,  by  a  great  sight."  Ike  was  much 
subdued  by  this,  and,  taking  advantage  of  her  moment- 
ary abstraction  and  three  doughnuts,  he  whistled  for 
Lion,  and  went  out  to  play. 


302  ON  A  CHILD'S  PICTURE. 


ON   A    CHILD'S    PICTURE. 

SWEET  memory  of  one  now  named  as  dead  ! 

A  beauteous  ray  from  life's  effulgent  light, 
That  but  a  moment  its  glad  brightness  shed, 

Then  vanished,  heavenward  to  wing  its  night ! 

That  smile  still  beams,  which  late  made  glad  the  heart,  • 

Like  a  fair  ripple  frozen  in  its  course  ; 
That  eye  as  then  its  burning  glance  doth  dart, 

Lit  by  a  love  high  heaven  alone  its  source. 

One  only  glimpse  thou  givest  of  the  face 
Whereon  a  thousand  graces  ever  shone  ; 

We  turn  from  thee,  and  in  our  sadness  trace 

Those  faded  charms  in  memory's  light  alone.  . 

Thou  'rt  but  one  line  of  a  fair-printed  page.  — 
A  sweet  abstraction,  wanting  all  the  rest, — 

One  drop  of  water,  that  cannot  assuage 

The  longing  thirst  that  burns  within  our  breast 

That  brow  is  but  a  shadow  to  our  gaze, 

Those  cheeks  but  semblances  in  pictured  stone, 

Those  beaming  eyes  emit  but  frozen  rays, 

Those  lips  give  back  no  warmth  to  greet  our  own. 

0  !  mockery  of  life,  in  loveless  frost ! 

All  that  thou  art  is  but  a  tiny  grain 
Of  the  great  treasure  that  our  heart  has  lost, 

And  small  thy  power  to  ease  our  bitter  pain. 

Yet  how  we  prize  thee  !  soulless  though  thou  art,— 
The  ghost  of  loveliness  that  once  was  ours,  — 

Thou  quickenest  drooping  faith  within  our  heart, 
And  liftest  up  the  cloud  that  o'er  us  lowers,  — 

Letting  God's  holy  light  upon  the  scene, 
And  drawing  our  sad  spirits  up  to  HJ  !  — 

Art  gives  sweet  evidence  of  what  has  been, 
And  faith  assurance  that  what  has  been  it. 


WEARING   ORNAMENTS.  —  OPERATIC.  303 


WEARING    ORNAMENTS. 

AN  immense  business  is  done  merely  in  preparing 
ornaments  for  the  person,  and  many  people  make  up 
dismal  faces  as  they  mention  personal  ornaments  among 
the  frivolities  of  life.  Used  according  to  the  dictates 
•*f  taste  arid  judgment,  they  greatly  enhance  personal 
attraction ;  but,  when  used  merely  for  the  sake  of  dis- 
play, they  take  from  the  effect  of  the  personal,  and 
become  merely  a  pecuniary  consideration,  —  a  glitter- 
ing bait  to  tempt  some  covetous  gudgeon,  or  to  drive 
to  despair  some  rival,  whose  diamond  mine  has  not 
yielded  so  prolifically.  A  correct  taste  sees  in  the 
simpler  adornment  more  grace  than  in  the  profuse,  and 
never  exceeds  the  propriety  of  decoration  ;  and,  though 
her  jewel-box  sparkle  as  richly  as  Golconda  with  dia- 
monds, she  who  possesses  this  taste  will  never  endanger 
the  effect  of  beauty,  if  simplicity  is  its  best  adornment, 
to  display  a  fortune  in  gems  that  a  princess  might  covet. 
The  vulgar  shine  in  the  ostentation  of  decoration, — 
they  blaze  in  the  quantity  of  magnificence,  like  a  deco- 
ration of  a  temple  for  a  fete-day  by  one  who  believes 
that  in  the  amount  of  bunting  and  Chinese  lanterns  is 
the  summum  bomim  of  decorative  art. 


OPERATIC. 


"  WHAT  a  strain  that  is ! "  said  Mrs.  Partington,  as  she 
heard  an  aria  from  Lucia,  sung  in  the  highest  style,  by 
a  young  lady  where  she  was  visiting. — "Yes,"  was  the 
reply,  "  it  is  operatic." — "  Upper  attic,  is  it  ?"  said  she ; 
"  1  should  think  it  was  high  enough  to  be  on  top  of 
the  house."  Mrs.  Partington  does  not  believe  that 
mere  screaming  constitutes  melody. 


304  A  NARROW   ESCAPE. 


A    NARROW    ESCAPE. 

SOME  people  come  very  near  matrimony  and  miss  it, 
as  we  have  read  of  those  who  fell  asleep,  in  their  wan- 
derings in  the  dark,  upon  the  edge  of  fearful  precipices/ 
and  waked  in  the  morning  very  thankful  for  their 
escape.  We  wish  to  be  distinctly  understood  that  the 
last  clause  in  the  simile  only  applies  to  the  unpleasant 
nap  alluded  to.  We  heard  a  reason  given  by  a  bachelor 
to  his  son  for  never  getting  married,  — we  believe,  how- 
ever, that  it  was  his  nephew  that  the  reason  was  given 
to,  but  it  is  of  small  consequence,  —  where  the  indi- 
vidual came  nigh  marriage,  and  escaped,  that  we  think 
worth  stating.  When  young  Plume  became  of  age,  he 
was  very  good-looking,  and  possessed  a  fortune  in  more 
substantial  goods,  besides.  He  was  a  subject  for  ten 
thousand,  more  or  less,  direct  matrimonial  attacks,  but 
resisted  them  all  like  a  man.  Many  were  after  him, 
and,  as  he  plumed  himself  upon  his  good  looks,  he 
deemed  that  Plume  was  what  they  sought,  and  never 
once  imagined  that  a  mercenary  idea  regarding  him  and 
his  money  could  enter  into  the  fair  heads  that  contrived 
*o  attract  him,  or  the  hearts  that  beat  for  him.  He  was 
«me  day  speaking  of  the  general  i  cmage  that  was  ac- 
corded him,  and  manifested  considerable  delight  thereat. 
"  Ah,  my  young  friend,"  said  Mr.  Oldbird,  "  this  is  very 
fine,  but  do  not  deem  that  all  this  homage  proceeds 
from  personal  consideration.  If  you  hau  n't  money,  it 
would  n't  be  thus,  depend  upon  it."  —  "  You  are  mis- 
given," replied  Plume,  warmly ;  "  I  know  you  are  mis- 
taM,:i."  —  "  Well,"  said  Oldbird,  patting  his  cane,  "  I  '11 
"*3l  you  what  I  '11  do :  I  '11  wager  that  the  one  you  value 
tue  most  would  jilt  you,  if  she  thought  you  hadn't  the 
tin  "  —  "  It  is  a  — "  he  checked  himself,  and  concluded 


A  NARROW  ESCAPE.  305 

the  sentence  with —  "  a  very  preposterous  idea."  Ihey 
separated,  and  as  he  recalled  that  one  whom  he  valued 
the  most,  he  felt  that  he  had  done  her  nothing  but  jus- 
tice in  defending  her  against  the  attack  of  Oldbird. 
That  night  he  resolved  that  he  would  test  the  fact.  He 
would  glean  the  delicious  truth,  that  she  loved  him  for 
himself  alone,  from  her  own  ruby  lips.  He  had  been 
long  regarded  as  an  eligible  match  by  her  anxious 
parents,  and  a  crisis  was  momentarily  looked  for  by 
them.  "  Julia,"  said  Plume,  as  they  sat  in  the  arbor, 
"  if  I  were  as  poor  as  that  chap,  there  now  engaged  in 
the  miserable  business  of  unloading  potatoes,  you  would 
not  love  me."  — "  0,  how  can  you  wound  me  by  so 
unjust  a  suspicion?  You  should  know  that  nothing 
mercenary  mingles  with  my  Jove ;  that,  were  you  re- 
duced to  not  more  than  two  or  three  thousand  dollars  a 
year,  you  would  be  just  as  dear  to  me,"  Plume  kissed 
her,  and,  whispering  that  he  wished  to  confer  with  her 
paternal,  he  left  her.  He  turned  to  where  he  knew  that 
tender  parent  was  to  be  found  at  that  hour,  enjoying  a 
nap  in  his  easy-chair.  Suddenly  awaking,  he  rubbed 
his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Plume,  who  stood  before  him. 
(l  Respected  sir,"  Plume  began, "  I  love  your  daughter." 
—  "  So  do  I,"  said  the  old  man,  chuckling.^-  "  I  would 
marry  her,"  continued  the  lover.  —  "  Very  well,"  said 
the  father,  "  that 's  right ;  you  shall  have  her."  —  "  But," 
said  Plume,  "  it  is  nothing  but  right  that  you  should 
know  my  affairs  ;  I 'm  rich,  you  know."  —  "I  know  it ; 
at  least,  I  suppose  so."  — "  But,"  continued  Plume, 
"  my  money  is  invested  in  a  queer  way.  It  is  all  in 
copper  stocks  and  railroad  bonds,  that  have  n't  paid  a 
cent  of  dividend  for  ten  years  ;  and,  though  it  probably 
will  all  come  out  well  enough,  I  can't  see  exactly  when." 
The  old  gentleman  started  up.  "  Stocks  ! "  cried  he,  in 
26*  20 


306  THE   WORLD. 

a  tone  of  voice  that  would  have  done  credit  to  Elder  Kean; 
the  eminent  tragedian ;  "ruinous  risks — ruinous  risks,  sir 
— my  daughter  cannot  marry  mortgage-bonds  and  coppei 
certificates  !  Sell  your  stocks,  wait  a  year,  and  then  we  '11 
see."  Plume  ran  for  comfort  to  Julia.  "  Dearest,"  said 
he,  "  I  am  in  despair.  Can  you  marry  Pewabic  ?  Will 
you  annex  your  fortunes  to  Ogdensburg?"  She  had 
listened  at  the  door,  and  knew  all. — "  I  think,"  said  she, 
in  a  voice  tender  with  emotion,  "  we  'd  better  wait  a 
year."  He  thought  so,  too,  and  left.  The  next  day's  in- 
quiry revealed  that  Plume  did  not  own  a  dollar's  worth 
of  any  stock  he  had  named,  and  the  old  man  found  he 
had  put  his  foot  in  it.  Plume  never  went  again,  and 
when,  in  a  warm  letter,  reminded  of  his  former  intimacy, 
he  was  requested  to  renew  it,  he  simply  said  he  was 
very  busy  selling  his  stocks,  and  could  n't  possibly 
come.  He  never  believed  in  human  professions  after 
that,  and  always  very  unjustly  reckoned  women  among 
the  copper  stocks,  and  the  bonds  of  matrimony  as  mort- 
gage-bonds much  reduced.  That  was  the  reason  he 
gave  for  never  getting  married. 


THE    WORLD. 

THIS  is  a  funny  old  world,: — a  queer  mosaic  of  combina- 
tions, as  multihued  as  the  good  dame's  patch-work  quilt 
that  was  exhibited  in  the  Fair ;  everybody  sees  this, 
and  in  a  spleeny  spirit  asks,  "  What 's  the  use  ?  "  Every- 
thing seems  to  jump  by  opposites  of  feeling  and  im- 
pulse, and  clanging  and  jarring  the  big  world  goes 
round,  inharmonious  and  discordant,  we  think.  We  are 
right  among  it,  and  it  is  through  our  want  of  faith  that 
it  is  discordant.  It  is  a  grand  orchestra,  the  world,  and 


NIAGARA   FALLS.  307 

all  of  us  are  engaged  in  playing  in  it,  and  we  cannot 
tell,  as  each  sounds  his  note,  its  effect.  It  seems  dis- 
cordant to  us,  but  the  Great  Leader  who  notes  its  time 
sees  the  harmony  in  it,  sees  the  effect  of  the  great 
notes  sounded  by  the  maestros,  and  that  of  the  tiny 
efforts  of  the  least,  and  recognizes  in  all  the  elements  of 
a  perfect  harmony.  There  is  encouragement  in  this 
faith,  that,  where  in  self-pride  the  performer  takes  upon 
himself  airs,  his  performance  is  no  more  valued  in  the 
grand  whole  than  the  humblest  second  fiddle  of  them 
all,  who  sleeps  in  a  garret  at  night,  poorly  paid  and 
poorly  fed.  We  find  it  hard  to  reconcile  the  difference 
in  compensation  for  performance,  but  leave  that  for  the 
great  day  of  adjustment.  A  large  balance  may  then  be 
due  those  who  are  less  favored.  What  is  the  use  ?  In 
this  view  the  use  becomes  apparent,  and  the  world 
spins  down  the  "  ringing  grooves  of  time,"  adding  its 
song  to  that  of  the  spheres,  which  gave  the  first  concert 
in  the  grand  academy  of  the  universe. 


NIAGARA   FALLS. 

0,  SHEET  of  standard  melody  sublime  ! 

My  ravished  ears  drink  in  thy  liquid  notes, 
A  cherished  anthem  of  the  ancient  time, 

That,  still  unchanging,  to  far  ages  floats ; 
An  "  old  folks'  concert  "  of  undoubted  age, 

That  fears  no  check  of  innovation's  bars, 
So  perfect  that  no  Vandal  dare  engage 

To  mend  the  song  coeval  with  the  stars  !  — 
In  hearing  of  thy  solemn  monotone, 

The  universe  with  pulseless  awe  might  list, 
Whilst  I,  struck  dumb,  hark  to  its  strains  alone, 

And  feel  my  wandering  soul  among  the  mist, 
That,  like  an  echo  of  the  chorus  grand, 
Quavers  responsive  it  the  thrilling  iand. 


308  BALLAD   ABOUT   BUNKER. 


BALLAD    ABOUT    BUNKER. 

'T  WAS  dreadful  hot  on  Bunker's  height,  — 
The  patriots  in  their  trenches  lay,  — 

While,  bellowing  with  a  bitter  spite, 
The  British  cannon  blazed  away  ; 

When  Parson  Martin  wiped  his  brow, 
And,  turning  round,  to  Prescott  spok«  : 

"I  guess  I  '11  go,  if  you  '11  allow, 
A  while  among  the  Charlestown  folk. 

*T  feel  there  's  danger  to  the  town, 
I  see  the  clouds  there  gathering  thick  ; 

And  ere  the  storm  comes  rattling  down, 
I  think  I  '11  tell  them  cut  their  stick." 

And  then  he  took  a  glass,  —  good  man  !  — 
And  through  the  village  made  his  way , 

A  glass,  I  mean,  with  which  to  scan 
The  hostile  vessels  in  the  Bay. 

He  saw  the  British  barges  fill 
With  armed  soldiers  fierce  and  strong, 

And  told  the  folk  it  boded  ill, 

And  that  they  'd  better  push  along. 

But  no,  not  they ;  a  dogged  trait 
impelled  them  to  incur  the  pinch. 

And  so  they  thought  they  'd  better  wait, 
And  vowed  they  wouldn't  budge  an  inch. 

Again  good  Parson  Martin  went 

Down  to  the  village  all  alone ; 
From  digging  hard  his  strength  was  spent, 

From  watching  he  was  weary  grown. 

*'  Now  rest  ye,"  goodman  Gary  said  ; 

"  Your  tottering  limbs  pray  here  bestow,*' 
.And  pointed  to  a  bounteous  bed, 

A  solace  meet  for  weary  woe. 


ATTENDING   THE   ANNIVERSARIES.  309 

And  on  the  bed  the  parson  fell, 

But  scarcely  had  his  eyelids  closed, 
When,  crashing  through  the  roof,  a  shell 

Disturbed  the  dream  in  which  he  dozed. 

•'  I  think,"  quoth  he,  upstarting  straight, 

"  'T  will  be  here  somewhat  warm  to-day, 
And  that,  if  you  should  hap  to  wait, 

You  '11  find  the  deuce  and  all  to  pay." 

And  then  from  out  the  fated  bound 

The  people  sadly  made  their  tracks, 
But  Parson  Martin  he  was  found 

Where  fell  the  most  determined  whacks. 

His  heart  to  heaven  went  up  in  prayer 

That  it  would  aid  each  mother's  son  ; 
And  heaven  made  vocal  answer  there, 

In  every  deadly  patriot  gun. 


ATTENDING    THE   ANNIVERSARIES. 

IKE  came  home,  soaking  with  the  wet,  and  threw  him- 
self in  a  chair,  and  his  cap  at  a  nail  on  the  opposite  wall. 
"  Well,  Isaac,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  with  a  slight  cloud 
on  her  brow,  "  where  have  you  been  ?  "  —  "  Been  to  the 
anniversaries,"  replied  he,  with  a  smile  playing  all  round 
his  mouth.  — "  Glad  of  it,"  said  she,  brightening  up ; 
"  glad  of  it,  and  I  hope  it  did  you  good.  What  anni- 
versaries have  you  been  'tending ?  "  —  "I Ve  been  to| 
training,  and  to  the  circus,"  replied  the  young  hopeful, 
looking  down  at  his  wet  shoes.  The  old  lady  sighed 
deeply,  as  she  went  about  her  household  affairs,  think- 
ing what  would  become  of  that  boy,  if  he  went  on  so. 


310  THE  COUNTRY  RIDE. 


THE    COUNTRY    RIDE. 

BEING   A   VERACIOUS    HISTORY,   REVEALING   A   NEW   EXPEDIENT  BY   WHICH   A 
BOSTONIAN    STOPPED   A  RUNAWAY   HORSE. 

'T  is  a  capital  thing  to  ride,  they  say, 
O'er  a  country  road  in  a  one-horse  shay, 

With  a  country  cousin  or  two  in  ; 
To  crack  one's  whip  in  a  sporting  way, 
And  kiss  the  cousins  in  mode  au  fait, 
Which  means  as  often  as  ever  you  may, 
With  none  but  the  horses  to  cry  out  "  Nay," 

Or  to  see  what  you  are  doing  ; 
It  is  capital,  too,  when  the  skies  are  blue, 
To  drive  the  shady  old  forest  through, 

And  kiss  the  maids 

'Neatk  the  ambient  shades,  — 
That  is,  if  such  you  fancy  to  do  ; 
For  myself,  I've  long  renounced  such  vanities, 
As  being  among  the  lesser  insanities, 

Tending,  Heaven  knows, 

To  mar  the  repose 

Of  sensitive  folk,  and  such  as  those 
Who  belong  to  the  finer  humanities. 

'T  was  on  a  day 

Not  long  away, 
That  one,  abroad  on  vacation 
(Somewhere  up  in  New  Hampshire  State, 
Famous  for  raising  men  of  weight, 

And  hills  that  stump  creation, 
And  beautiful  streams,  and  famous  trout, 
Tfcat  fishers  skilfully  tickle  out 

For  gastronomication), 
Took  it  into  his  head  to  ride, 
With  a  beautiful  coz  on  either  side — 

Position  most  delectable  ! — 
The  horse  he  chose  was  a  quiet  beast, 
Not  disposed  to  shy  in  the  least, 
Whose  speed,  't  was  true,  had  some  decreased 

But  still  he  was  not  rejectable ; 
Not  2.40  nor  40.2, 
But  over  the  road  he  'd  "  put  her  through" 

In  time  deemed  quite  respectable. 


THE   COUNTRY   HIDE.  311 

His  mane  was  combed  and  greased  anew, 
He  wore  his  tail  done  up  in  a  queue, 
And  he  hung  his  head  as  if  lots  he  knew, 
In  manner  very  reflectable  ! 

Now  off  they  go  — 

Gee  up,  gee  whoa ! 

There 's  fun  on  a  country  road,  we  know, 
And  so  knows  the  knight  of  Hanover — 

(Hanover-street  is  the  one  I  mean, 

A  knight  of  the  yard-stick  he,  I  ween, 

A  capital  fellow  as  ever  was  seen)  — 
Who  often  in  youth  one  ran  over. 

He  held  the  reins  as  a  Jehu  might, 

Till  by  and  by  the  horse  took  fright, 

At  something  offensive  to  his  sight, 
Or  smell,  as  some  have  pretended, 

And  well  knew  the  driver  that  in  Ms  way 

A  terrible  granite  boulder  lay, 
Just  where  the  road  descended  ! 

Now,  what  to  do 

He  scarcely  knew, 
But,  heeding  the  old  "  in  media  tu- 

tissimus  ibis,"  on  he  flew, 
Keeping  the  road  in  the  middle, 

The  while  the  pony  straightened  the  rein 

So  hard  it  gave  his  fingers  pain, 
And  hummed  like  the  string  of  a  fiddle. 
On  they  sped  with  jolt  and  bolt, 
The  old  horse  wild  as  a  yearling  colt, 

As  maddened  and  as  frisky 
As  a  toper  on  a  sennight  spree, 
Just  on  the  edge  of  delirium  tre', 
Quenched  in  him  each  sane  idee, 

By  villanous  rifle  whiskey. 
Out  from  the  doors  the  people  ran, 
Every  woman,  every  man, — 

0,  they  '11  be  killed  for  certain ! 
And  certain  it  seemed  that  the  hand  of  Fate 
Only  a  moment  more  did  wait 

To  drop  their  mortal  curtain. 


112  THE  COUNTRY  BIDE. 

Old  Squire  Lee  was  taking  his  tea, — 

Perhaps  it  was  something  stronger, — 
'T  was  a  very  hot  day,  and  he  sipped  away 

Than  usual  a  little  longer, 

When  dast»  and  crash 

There  came  a  smash 
Like  a  bolt  of  vengeful  thunder 

When  the  head  of  a  horse 
And  half  of  a  chaise, 

With  an  earthquake's  force 

Broke  in  on  his  gaze, 
Filling  him  full  of  wonder  ! 

Right  through  the  side  of  the  house  they  ran, 
Horse  and  chaise,  and  woman  and  man — 

A  most  insane  intrusion  ;  — 
That  is,  they  would  have  done  so,  but  — 
They  did  n't —  the  chaise-shafts  only  cut 
A  hole  where  one  his  arm  might  put  — 

The  rest  was  an  illusion  ; 
But  there  upon  the  cold,  cold  ground 
The  three  excursionists  sat  around, 

In  most  sublime  confusion. 
Sure  such  a  sight  was  never  seen, 
Such  fearful  destruction  of  crinoline, 

And  there  sat  the  fallen  hero  ; 
A  moment  he  thought  of  his  cruel  fate, 
And  then  he  placed  his  hand  on  his  pate 
His  wig  was  gone !  and,  bald  as  a  slate, 

He  sat  there  stiff  as  Zero. 

And  Squire  Lee,  quite  jolly  was  he, 
Well  pleased  the  thing  was  no  sadder  ; 

Says  he,  "  My  lad,  I  'm  heartily  glad 

You  're  not  disposed  for  this  to  die  mad, 
Like  those  who  sometimes  dye  madder." 

Then  Squire  Lee 

Gave  them  some  tea, 

And  everything  ended  right  merrily 
And,  homeward  soon  returning, 

The  horse  behaved  like  a  sensible  beast, 

And  did  n't  bolt  or  shy  in  the  least, 

His  wisdom  verj  much  increased 
By  the  'esson  he  'd  l«ea  '.earning 


ECONOMY. 

ECONOMT 

WE  were  delighted  with  P/ifkins'  account  of  his  sav- 
ing, by  an  economical  expedient,  and  give  it  in  nearly 
hia  own  words.  "  Mr.  Blif kins,"  says  my  wife,  "  our 
kitchen  needs  painting."  —  "Does  it,  my  dear?  Well, 
then,  need  it  must ;  for  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Blif  kins,  that 
the  accruing  dimes  do  not  warrant  the  outlay,  at  pres- 
ent." I  saw  that  she  was  unhappy,  and  knew  that  she 
would  not  relinquish  her  point.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said 
she,  a  few  days  thereafter,  "  I  have  thought  of  an  ex- 
pedient by  which  we  can  have  our  kitchen  painted." 
Her  face  was  lighted  up  with  an  expression  that  it  too 
seldom  wears,  as  she  spoke.  She  is  a  great  woman  for 
expedients,  is  Mrs.  Blifkins.  "  You  can  do  it  yourself!" 
continued  she,  touching  me  with  the  point  of  her  fore- 
finger in  the  region  of  my  fourth  vest-button.  "  A  dol- 
lar saved,"  said  she,  still  further,  "  is  as  good  as  a  dollar 
earned,  you  know."  I  looked  with  admiration  on  that 
wonderful  specimen  of  her  sex,  as  she  said  this,  and 
"  allowed  "  (as  the  western  people  say)  to  myself  that, 
as  an  economist,  she  had  no  peer.  And  well  I  might 
allow  it ;  for,  at  the  very  moment  were  her  shoulders 
covered  by  a  sort  of  monkey-jacket  made  of  one  of  my 
worn-out  coats,  and  a  pair  of  galligaskins  had  assumed 
the  form  of  a  basque,  that  was  worn  by  a  juvenile 
Blifkins.  "  Your  suggestion,"  says  I,  to  my  wife,  "  is  a 
good  one,  and  to-morrow  shall  develop  a  new  phase  in 
my  character.  I  will  turn  artist,  and  give  the  world 
evidence  of  a  talent  that  needed  but  the  Promethean 
spark  of  necessity  to  draw  it  out.  1  will  procure  pots 
and  brushes,  and  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael,  Salvator 
Rosa,  and  Claude  Lorraine,  shall  yield  the  palm  to  Blif- 
kins." 

27 


314  ECONOMY. 

Mrs.  B.  was  delighted.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my 
in  the  night,  as  I  was  about  settling  into  my  solid  nap, 
" you 'd  better  make  it  pale-green." —  "Do  what ? "  said 
I,  starting  up,  forgetting  all  about  the  painting.  —  "  The 
paint,"  replied  she.  I  am  afraid  that  I  used  some  ex- 
pression of  spleen  that  was  unworthy  of  me.  I  turned 
over  to  try  to  sleep  again.  "Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my 
wife,  "  don't  you  think  the  window-sills  would  look  bet- 
ter some  other  color  ?  "  —  "  Any  color  you  please,  my 
dear,"  said  I ;  "  but  let  us  dismiss  the  subject  from  pres- 
ent discussion,  as  this  is  no  place  for  a  brush."  I  car- 
ried my  point,  as  she  had  her  paint,  and  I  was  allowed 
to  sleep.  But  I  was  all  night  dreaming  of  my  under- 
taking. No  roseate  hues  mingled  with  my  sleeping 
fancies,  fraught  with  the  odors  of  celestial  bowers ;  but 
paint-pots  were  piled  in  pyramids  about  me,  brush- 
handles,  like  boarding-pikes,  I  encountered  everywhere, 
and  a  villanous  smell  of  raw  paint  almost  suffocated  me. 

I  was  up  with  the  lark,  and,  after  breakfast,  went 
down  to  Bristle,  the  painter's,  to  procure  my  paint. 
That  eminent  professor  of  art  mixed  me  two  pots  of  the- 
right  article,  of  hues  that  were  of  a  satisfactory  shade, 
and  I  went  home  with  anticipations  of  the  most  exalted 
character.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  "  you  have 
dreadfully  daubed  your  pants  with  the  paint  —  strange 
that  you  should  be  so  careless."  Sure  enough,  on  both 
sides  I  had  bestowed  impartial  donations  of  the  adher- 
ing color.  The  pants  were  new,  and  I  had  congratu- 
lated myself  on  their  being  a  wonderful  fit.  This  was  a 
discouragement.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  "  you  'd 
better  put  on  an  old  pair."  I  have  always  boasted  of 
my  ability  to  compete  with  anybody  in  the  particular 
property  known  as  old  clothes.  I  knew  that  the  de- 
cayed fashion  of  many  years  hung  by  their  allotted 


ECONOMY.  315 

pegs  in  the  closet,  which  had  been  facetiously  denom- 
inated the  "  wardrobe,"  and  hastened  to  procure  the  gar- 
ment desired.  In  the  name  of  all  of  the  tribes  of  Israel, 
where  were  the  bifurcated  teguments  that  for  years  had 
met  my  view  ?  The  pegs  were  bare,  and  my  first  im- 
pression was  that  they  had  taken  to  their  own  legs,  and 
walked  away.  "  Mrs.  Blifkins,"  said  I,  to  my  wife,  on  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  and  at  the  top  of  my  lungs,  "  where 
are  the — the  —  garments  ?"  I  heard  her  say  something 
about  "  sold,"  and  concluded  that  she  was  trying  some 
little  trick  upon  me,  as  wives  sometimes  will,  and  was 
adopting  the  formula  so  much  in  vogue  for  expressing 
it.  She  came  up  stairs.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  she,  "  I  de- 
clare, I  sold  all  of  your  old  clothes,  only  yesterday,  for 
a  beautiful  pair  of  vases,  and  some  tin  ware."  I  looked 
at  her  earnestly ;  but  the  evident  calmness  that  pre- 
vailed in  her  own  breast  softened  and  subdued  the  vio- 
lence in  mine.  "  You  'd  better  put  on  this,"  said  she, 
holding  up  an  article  of  female  apparel,  the  name  of 
which  I  disremember,  but  which,  when  secured  to  my 
waist,  as  I  recollect,  fell  to  my  feet.  She  smiled  as  she 
placed  it  in  my  hand,  and  I  put  it  on.  "  Mrs.  Blifkins,". 
said  I  to  my  wife,  "  why  am  I,  thus  accoutred,  liable  to 
be  more  extravagant  than  ever  ?  "  She  said  she  did  n't 
know.  "  Because,"  said  I,  triumphantly,  "  I  am  bound  to 
^a-ist ! "  She  pretended  not  to  see  the  reason,  and  I  did 
iiot  explain,  but  went  to  work.  "  Now  shall  you  see, 
wife  of  my  soul,"  said  1,  k  auob  work  as  you  can  find 
alone  in  the  Vatican  at  Rome,  01  the  Louvre  at  Paris, 
should  you  feel  inclined  to  seek  it.  Here,  before  this 
door,  I  take  my  stand,  and  here  I  commence.  You 
shall  see."  —  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  "  don't  drip 
it  over  on  the  floor." — "Never  fear,"  said  I,  dipping  in 


316  ECONOMY. 

the  brush,  and  sopping  it  up  against  the  side  in  the  most 
approved  form. 

My  first  aim  was  at  the  upper  part  of  the  door,  — • 
a  panelled  door,  —  and  I  applied  the  brush  vigorously. 
"  Mrs.  Blifkins,"  said  I,  to  my  wife,  "  as  the  morning  is 
rather  cold,  should  n't  you  think  it  well  to  put  on  two 
coats  ?  "  She  took  the  pleasantry  as  an  unkind  reflec- 
tion on  the  disposition  made  of  the  old  clothes,  and  didn't 
say  anything.  I  worked  away  on  that  door,  severely  ; 
but  I  found,  before  I  had  half  done  it,  a  weariness  in 
the  wrist ;  and  a  cold  sensation  up  my  sleeve,  attracting 
my  attention,  revealed  the  fact  that  a  stream  of  paint 
was  stealing  along  the  handle  of  the  brush  up  my  arm. 
I  laid  down  the  implement,  and  went  to  procure  some- 
thing with  which  to  wipe  the  paint  off.  "  Mr.  Blifkins," 
screamed  my  wife,  "  look  at  the  baby  !  "  I  looked,  as 
she  held  that  young  prodigy  up  to  view,  and  was  much 
shocked.  The  baby  had  crawled  to  the  paint-pot,  and 
had  immersed  his  two  hands  to  the  elbows.  Not  con- 
tent with  this,  he  had  laid  hands  on  the  brush,  and,  when 
Mrs.  Blifkins  saw  him,  he  was  engaged  in  an  insane 
effort  to  get  it  into  his  mouth.  The  precocity  of  that 
child  is  most  wonderful !  The  paint  was  washed  off, 
and  I  commenced  again.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife, 
when  I  had  been  working  about  two  hours,  with  my 
hands  cramped,  my  wrist  and  back  aching,  my  eyes  full 
of  paint,  and  my  face  tattooed  by  the  same,  like  a  New 
Zealander,  "  are  you  most  done  ?  "  The  "No  "  that  I 
returned  I  fear  was  not  pleasant.  All  that  forenoon  I 
worked  at  that  terrible  task,  and  at  about  dinner-time 
I  saw  it  accomplished.  "  Mrs.  Blifkins,"  said  I,  "  the 
work  is  completed  ;  come  and  look,  and  admire."  She 
came  at  my  request,  and  I  noticed  a  miechievous  twinkle 
in  ber  ?ye  as  she  looked.  "  Why,  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my 


ECONOMY.  317 

wife,  "you've  put  more  paint  on  the  paper  and  the  carpet 
than  you  have  anywhere  else."  Her  criticism  seemed 
unkind  ;  but  I  looked  where  she  had  directed,  and  round 
the  doors  and  window-frames  were,  rays  of  paint,  like 
the  surroundings  of  islands  on  a  map,  and  below  were 
large  blotches  of  paint  upon  the  carpet,  that  had  as- 
sumed geometrical  forms  enough  to  have  puzzled  the 
judgment  of  a  professor.  "  I  confess,  my  dear,  that  in 
this  particular  I  have  been  a  little  slovenly ;  but  look  at 
that  work."  —  "  Mr.  Blif  kins,"  said  my  wife,  "  if  there  Js 
no  better  painting  in  the  what's-its-name  at  Rome,  I 
don't  care  about  seeing  it."  The  door-bell  here  rang, 
and,  "  accoutred  as  I  was,"  without  thinking  of  it,  I 
rushed  to  see  who  had  come,  and  met  a  whole  bevy  of 
ladies,  and  suffered  the  mortification  of  a  sensitive 
nature  under  such  circumstances.  I  here  sum  up  the 
whole : 

J.  Blif  "kins  in  account  with  Domestic  Economy. 


1858.  Dr. 

To  painting  one  room,  $5.00 


To  Balance, $25.50 


$30.50 


1858.  Cr. 
Time  and  labor  spent  in  paint- 
ing,   $3.50 

Pants  spoilt  in  ditto, 8.00 

Paint 1.00 

Spoiling  carpet, 3.00 

Daubing  wall,      5.00 

Mortification, 10.00 


$30.50 


I  throw  in  the  dangerous  experiment  of  the  baby 
and  the  injury  to  health,  both  of  which,  could  they  be 
estimated  by  numbers,  would  swell  the  amount  to  an 
alarming  figure.  I  came  solemnly  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  hired  it  done. 

Such  was  Mr.  Blifkins'  story  about  his  economy.     It 
is  a  case  not  much  over-stated. 
27* 


318  LIFE'S  MASQUERADE. 


LIFE'S    MASQUERADE. 

Pur  on  your  mask,  0  living  soul  !  and  hide 
Your  features  from  the  world's  obtrusive  eye, 

As,  launched  upon  the  turbid  earthy  tide, 
We  float  unheeded  on  its  current  by. 

For  there  be  rich  emotions  quick  in  thee, 

Imprisoned  gems,  and  thoughts  of  import  sweet, 

That  might,  whate'er  their  priceless  rarity, 
Fall  sacrifice  beneath  unworthy  feet. 

I  would  not  have  the  coarse  and  careless  look 
Profane  the  spot  where  my  hushed  step  has  trod, 

Where  conscience  keeps  its  daily  record-book 
In  just  accordance  'twixt  itself  and  God. 

The  vulgar  glance  would  seem  like  baleful  light, 
And  to  my  shuddering  sense  a  thrill  impart, 

Like  that  the  touch  of  vagrant  fingers  might, 

Feeling  in  darkness  round  my  slumbering  heart ! 

Put  on  the  mask,  and  let  it  haply  wear 

A  saiile,  to  feign  it  were  but  lightly  donned, 

Gayly  as  though  you  had  no  real  share 
In  aught  the  present  sly  deceit  beyond. 

So  shall  you,  0  my  soul,  the  meed  obtain 

Frivolity  to  folly  ever  brings ; 
But  not  one  tassel  of  the  golden  grain 

Worthy  to  shrine  among  your  treasured  things. 

But,  though  thus  hidden,  there  be  those  for  whom, 
When  the  world  sees  not,  you  may  drop  the  mask ; 

Twin  with  yourself  in  feeling,  give  them  room, 
And  in  a  warm  reciprocation  bask. 

And  let  such  incidents  of  transient  joy, 

Through  memory's  aid,  delightedness  impart  ;  — 

The  world  cannot  joy's  secret  seeds  destroy, 
Sown  by  God's  husbandmen  within  the  heart. 


MRS.   PARTINGTON   PHILOSOPHIZING. 

0,  haste  the  time  when,  masking  disallowed, 
The  soul  stands  up  in  grandeur  unconcealed, 

Of  its  own  new-found  birthright  duly  proud, — 
The  right  to  live  in  truthfulness  revealed. 


MRS.    PARTINGTON   PHILOSOPHIZING. 

"  I  'VE  always  noticed,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  dropping 
her  voice  to  the  key  that  people  adopt  when  they  are 
disposed  to  be  philosophical  or  moral  —  "I 've  always 
noticed  that  every  year  added  to  a  man's  life  has  a  ten- 
derness to  make  him  older,  just  as  a  man  who  goes  a 
journey  finds,  as  he  jogs  on,  that  every  mile-stone 
brings  him  nearer  to  the  place  where  he  is  going,  and 
further  from  where  he  started.  I  have  n't  got  the  ex- 
orbitance of  feeling  that  I  had  once,  and  I  don't  believe 
I  shall  ever  have  it  again,  if  I  live  to  the  age  of  Methu- 
saleh,  which,  heaven  knows,  I  don't  want  to.  And, 
speaking  of  long  life,  I  have  n't  any  desire  to  live  any 
longer  than  the  breath  remains  in  my  body,  if  it  is  n't 
any  more  than  eighty  years.  I  would  n't  wish  to  be  a 
centurion,  and  the  idea  of  one  surviving  her  factories, 
and  becoming  idiomatic,  always  gives  me  a  disagreeable 
sensoriousness.  But  whatever  is  to  be  will  be,  and 
there  is  no  knowing  how  a  thing  will  turn  out  till  it 
takes  place.  Gracious  goodness  ! "  she  exclaimed,  as  a 
torpedo  snapped  on  the  floor  by  her  feet ;  "  you  might 
as  well  kill  a  body  as  frightem  'em  to  death.  Isaac  ! '' 
Ike  did  n't  respond  ;  but,  Mrs.  P.,  hadst  thou  but  glanced 
through  the  window,  thou  mightst  have  seen  a  little 
face,  hid  just  below  the  window-sill,  beaming  with  mirth 
and  jollity,  and  it  is  more  than  probable  that  a  portion 
of  the  coppers  thou  gavesL  the  boy  hath  returned  to 
plague  the  investor. 


V20  LUCK. 


LUCK. 

LUCK  is  a  sort  of  semi-Providence,  or  substitute  for 
Providence,  which  some  believe  in  as  a  controlling 
power  in  human  destiny ;  deeming  that  it  begins  with 
man's  existence,  and  goes  all  the  way  through  with  him, 
administering  on  this  hand  the  choicest  tit-bits  that  fall 
to  human  enjoyment,  and,  on  the  other,  hard  fare,  com- 
prising the  whole  catalogue  of  ills.  Some,  through  the 
magic  of  superseeing  Luck,  turn  everything  to  gold  that 
they  look  upon ;  while  others,  so  strange  is  Luck,  have 
all  that  which  is  gold  turn  to^  ashes  in  their  hands.  To 
be  lucky  is  the  grand  desideratum,  —  the  cardinal  point 
in  human  fortune,  —  though  the  proportion  of  lucky 
ones  to  the  unlucky  is  very  small.  It  is  curious  to 
trace  the  operations  of  Luck  in  its  results.  Lord 
Timothy  Dexter  affords  us  an  excellent  example.  But 
examples  everywhere  occur.  A  dozen  boys  start  on 
the  road  of  life,  with  equal  advantages,  equally  endowed 
with  capacity,  equally  ambitious,  and  equally  hopeful. 
One  of  them  alone  will  be  lucky,  the  rest  will  fail  sig- 
nally ;  the  one  will  never  lose  a  dollar,  the  rest  will 
never  save  a  cent.  In  every  transaction  Luck  is  evi- 
dent. Two  men  may  embark  in  the  same  business,  in 
which  double  tae  amount  of  exertion  on  the  one  part  is 
expended  that  triere  is  on  the  other,  and  he  who 
makes  the  least  will  win.  Why,  no  one  knows.  It  is 
Luck,  and  that  is  all  that  can  be  said  about  it.  Hood's 
unlucky  man  in  Tylney  Hall,  to  whom  all  manner  of 
adverses  happened,  was  a  melancholy  instance  of  the 
victim  to  unrelenting  Luck.  He,  it  is  remembered,  at 
(home  crowning  calamity,  asked  that  a  handful  of  sudden 
deaths  might  be  thrown  down,  for  one  of  which  he  said 
he  would  scramble,  as  heartily  as  ever  a  beggar 


ON   SUCH   A   NIGHT   AS   THIS.  32] 

scrambled  for  a  sixpence.  This  feeling  often  takes 
possession  of  one,  when  badgered  and  cornered  of  Fate ; 
but  it  is  wrong  to  feel  so.  When  the  great  and  true 
light  breaks  upon  us,  by  which  wa  shall  see  the  real 
meaning  of  things,  we  may  find  that  ill-luck,  with  its 
experience  of  sorrow  and  aggravation,  is  not  so  ill, 
after  all ;  and  that  Fate,  so  inconsiderably  spoken  about, 
may  be  Providence  in  disgmse,  working  for  good 
through  the  medium  of  dark  circumstance,  to  be  shown 
in  future  realization,  while  in  that  light  the  specious 
show  of  good  luck  may  prove  but  the  tinsel  decoration 
that  belongs  merely  to  time,  and  flashes  no  ray  beyond. 
It  may  not  always  be  lucky  to  be  in  luck. 


ON    SUCH    A    NIGHT    AS    THIS. 

THE  angry  rain  is  cold  without, 

The  wind  is  bleak  and  high, 
And  as  we  sit  the  hearth  about, 

And  hear  the  storm  go  by, 
We  glance  out  through  the  spreading  gloom, 

While  pain  invades  our  bliss, 
And  sigh  and  say,  God  help  the  poor, 

On.  such  a  night  as  this  ! 

And  then  our  thought  far  o'er  the  main 

On  ready  pinion  speeds,  — 
Thought  needs  no  shelter  from  the  rain, 

As  the  poor  body  needs  ;  — 
We  see  the  white-capped  waves  uprear, 

Below,  the  dark  abyss  ; 
Heaven  guard  the  sailor  !  is  our  praver, 

On  such  a  night  as  this. 

The  ruddy  fire  sends  forth  its  glow. 

And  cheerful  races  meet, 
Where  conversation's  charms  outflow 

In  loving  cadence  sweet ; 
21 


322  ON  SUCH   A   NIGHT  AS  TAIS. 

The  raging  winds  our  ears  assail, 

And  by  the  casement  hiss, 
Our  haven  shields  us  from  the  gale, 

On  such  a  night  as  this. 

And  thoughts  of  distant  friends  awake, 

And  thoughts  of  bygone  hours, 
When  their  fond  offices  of  love 

Bestrewed  our  path  with  flowers. 
Where  are  they  now,  the  loved,  the  lost, 

Whose  forms  we  ever  miss? 
Turn  they  a  passing  thought  for  us 

On  such  a  night  as  this  ? 

And  one  sweet  child,  our  joy  and  pride, 

Has  wandered  from  our  sight, 
We  miss  her  prattle  by  our  side, 

We  miss  her  eyes  so  bright ; 
We  know  she  dwells  where  storms  ne'er  com* 

To  mar  her  perfect  bliss  ; 
0  !  does  her  tender  thought  come  home, 

On  such  a  night  as  this  ? 

The  social  game  or  books  beguile 

The  hours  as  they  flee  ; 
The  pleasant  word  awakes  the  smile 

The  genial  love  to  see  ; 
The  surging  of  the  angry  rain 

Cannot  disturb,  I  wis, 
The  goodly  cheer  that  clusters  here, 

On  such  a  night  as  this. 

With  grateful  thrill  the  heart  outpours. 

Though  winds  and  rains  assail ; 
We  have  no  fear  within  our  doors, 

Where  love  and  peace  prevail ; 
Ihe  rattling  rain  may  dash  amain, 

It  hinders  not  our  kiss — 
That  household  charm  the  heart  doth  warm, 

On  such  a  night  as  this. 


THE   REASON.  323 


THE    REASON. 

A  PLEASANT  story  is  told  about  a  minister  of  our 
denomination,  who  obtained  much  notoriety  in  this 
vicinity,  a  few  years  since,  for  his  good-nature  and  keen 
wit,  and  whose  sayings  are  treasured  still  as  choice 
things  to  while  away  an  hour  withal,  and  make  it  pasa 
pleasantly.  He  now  officiates  acceptably  a  short  dis- 
tance in  the  interior,  and,  from  the  following  specimen, 
we  should  deem  that  he  had  not  departed  from  the 
geniality  of  faith  that  erewhile  distinguished  him.  A 
widow  lady  of  his  acquaintance,  who  had  sighed  in  her 
loneliness  for  some  years,  had  received  a  proposition  to 
marry  again,  and  had  made  up  her  mind  to  accept ;  yet 
Bhe  thought  she  would  go  through  the  form  of  asking 
the  advice  of  her  friend  the  parson.  He  came  in,  one 
day,  and  she  broached  the  subject  very  delicately,  by 
intimating  that  she  thought  of  improving  her  condition. 
"  My  dear  madam,"  said  he,  looking  'admiringly  at  her 
healthy  form,  "  that,  I  think,  would  be  impossible,  as  I 
never  saw  you  in  finer  condition  in  my  life."  —  "I 
mean,"  said  she,  blushing,  "  that  I  thought  of  changing 
my  situation."  —  "Very  injudicious,"  said  he,  looking 
out  of  the  window ;  "  your  situation  here  is  very  fine, 
and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  better."  —  "  You  do  not 
divine  my  meaning,  sir,"  persisted  she ;  "  my  little 
Edward  is  now  of  an  age  when  a  father's  authority  is 
essential  for  his  control,  and,  having  an  advantageous 
offer,  I  thought  I  should  get  married  again."  This 
was  said  so  timidly,  and  the  eyes  were  cast  down  so 
sensitively,  that  it  was  very  touching  in  the  widow. 
"  Ah  !  "  said  he,  "  that  is  it,  then ;  and  so  you  are  going 
to  get  married  to  raise  Ned,  are  you  ?  "  The  crimson 
deepened  a  little  in  the  widow's  cheek,  and  the  light 


324  THE  BANKER'S  DREAM. 

quickened  in  her  eye ;  but  she  knew  the  kind  heart  of 
the  man  that  spoke  the  pleasantly,  and  she  was.  not 
angry.  His  congratulations  and  advice  were  given, 
Hid  she  was  happy. 


THE    BANKER'S    DREAM. 

THE  long,  long  day  had  wearily  flown, 
And  now  'neath  his  own  roof-tree 

The  banker  sat  by  his  hearth  alone, 
And  an  anxious  man  was  he,  — 

No  cheerful  light  from  his  eyes  outshone, 
As  he  sighed  right  heavily. 

He  had  felt  the  fever  and  fearful  strife,  — 

That  gnawing  at  the  heart, 
"Which,  with  trouble  and  sorrow  rife, 

Had  swept  above  the  mart ; 
And  he  thought  of  the  joys  of  a  humble  life, 

From  cares  like  his  apart. 

His  aching  eyelids  drooped  to  a  close, 

His  head  sank  on  his  breast ; 
Forgot  was  the  world,  its  ills  and  woes, 

In  the  moment  of  peaceful  rest, 
And  the  wave  of  sorrow  that  round  him  rose 

A  joyful  hope  expressed. 

No  notes  to  pay  mixed  with  his  dreams,  — 
He  moved  as  free  as  the  air,  — 

No  speculation's  subtle  schemes 
In  his  present  thoughts  had  share, 

But  plenty  around  him  shed  its  beams, 
And  followed  him  everywhere. 

Domestic  joy  upon  him  smiled, 

And  he  felt  its  blissful  power ; 
The  precious  presence  of  wife  an  1  child 

Illumed  his  peaceful  bowr  ; 
And  the  sweets  of  home  the  ill  beguiled 

Of  every  passing  hour. 


THE  BANKER'S  DREAM.  325 

All  faces  were  lit  with  glad  content : 

The  day  of  banks  had  flown  ; 
By  joy  men  reckoned  their  rate  per  cent, 

And  owned  this  rule  alone  ; 
And  the  sharpers  who  by  usury  lent 

Had  all  to  Tophet  gone. 

And  growing  love  'twixt  man  and  man 

Assumed  the  selfish  place, 
And  a  happy  brotherhood  began 

Again  to  unite  the  race, 
And  man  ne'er  from  his  brother  ran, 

With  shame  on  his  bankrupt  face. 

The  busy  wheels  of  a  thousand  mills 

Made  music  grandly  sweet, 
And  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills 

Looked  comely,  sleek,  and  neat, 
While  Labor  smiled  by  the  mountain  rills, 

With  plenty  and  peace  replete. 

And  calmly  he  slept  in  his  ample  chair, 

His  breathing  was  soft  and  low ; 
No  darkened  shapes  obtruded  there, 

With  their  burthen  of  pressing  woe  ; 
Forgot  was  the  gloomy  weight  of  care 

That  had  checked  his  spirit's  flow. 

He  started  and  woke.     "  Sweet  vision,  stay  I 

0,  can  it  fje  all  in  vain  ? 
Must  the  beauteous  and  angelic  ray 

Be  lost  in  the  clouds  of  pain  ? 
I  'd  give  all  my  hopes  of  wealth  to-day, 

To  dream  that  dream  again." 
28 


326  SEA-SICKNESS. 

SEA-SICKNESS 

AMONG  the  disagreeables  that  cba^e  to  fall  upon 
humanity,  there  is  nothing  more  painful  than  sea-sick 
ness.  Those  who  go  down  on  the  sea  for  fun,  after 
reading  romances  glowing  with  eulogies  of  the  ocean, 
or  poetry  liquid  with  its  praises,  think  they  are  going 
to  have  a  nice  time.  They  laugh,  and  sing,  and  joke, 
and  affect  sea-talk,  and  look  after  the  small  stores,  and 
indulge  in  thoughts  of  chowder,  and  even  a  broad  hint 
of  fat  pork  fails  to  awaken  any  other  feeling  but  one  of 
mirth.  Thus  they  start.  The  breeze  is  fair,  the  water 
is  smooth,  and  far  off  is  the  deep  sea,  that  "  likeness  of 
heaven"  they  have  read  about,  and  which  they  will 
now  become  acquainted  with.  By  and  by  a  motion  in 
the  vessel  is  perceptible.  Rising  and  falling  with  the 
eea,  she  pitches  in,  right  and  left.  A  glance  over  the 
side  reveals  the  yeasty  waves  dancing  in  a  mad  game 
of  touch  and  run,  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  up  and 
down.  Here  is  a  hill  to  climb,  and  here  a  vale  to  cross. 
Now  right  in  her  teeth  the  vessel  meets  the  sea,  and 
trembles  from  stem  to  stern.  Anon  she  receives  a  blow 
on  one  side,  and  then,  without  turning  the  other  also, 
she  gets  one  on  the  opposite  side.  Mr.  Verigreen,  who 
was  so  gay  a  moment  ago,  is  now  very  ill.  He  smiles, 
however,  as  he  is  addressed,  and  swears  it  is  the  to- 
bacco. The  smile  is  a  base  counterfeit,  —  a  lie,  —  for 
there  is  no  joy  in  his  heart.  He  cannot  define  the  feel- 
ing that  fills  him.  There  is  an  utter  goneness  about 
him.  It  is  dreadful.  There  is  a  grateful  smell  of 
chowder  from  the  galley.  To  Yerigreen  it  is  ex- 
ecrable. He  thinks  of  the  beautiful  shore  and  its  sub- 
stantial rocks,  and  wonders  why  anybody  ever  wants  tc 
go  to  sea.  The  sea,  as  if  angry  at  his  uncomplimentary 


SEA-SICKNESS.  327 

reflection,  growls  and  hisses  all  around  him.  His  head 
aches,  and  his  heart  aches.  Comfort  with  him  has  long 
since  fled.  He  still  thinks,  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the 
cigars,  he  should  have  done  very  well.  There  never 
was  a  vessel  before,  he  knows,  that  pitched  so  much, 
and  he  asks  the  man  at  the  helm  if  he  can't  hold  her  a 
little  more  steady.  Will  he  be  just  so  polite  as  to  try  ? 
He  is  a  stern  man,  —  he  is  always  astern  man,  —  and 
laughs  at  poor  Verigreen.  Everybody  laughs  at  him. 
They  call  upon  him  for  small  stores,  and  he  answers 
with  a  groan ;  they  try  him  with  cigars,  and  he  puts 
them  by ;  they  hint  at  pork  and  molasses,  and  he  col- 
lapses. He  begs  them  to  throw  him  overboard,  as  an 
act  of  personal  kindness.  He  condemns  the  cigars.  He 
sits  next  the  rail,  because  the  prospect  is  better.  There 
is  lead  on  his  stomach,  and  he  throws  it.  He  knows  he 
should  not  have  been  sick  but  for  the  cigars.  Poor 
Verigreen !  there  is  no  mercy  or  compassion  for  him. 
His  experience  ended,  hear  him,  as  his  foot  presses 
terra  firma,  record  his  opinion  of  the  sea :  "  Great  is  thy 
majesty,  0  Ocean  !  Thy  waves  are  high,  and  thy  waters 
brackish.  Powerful  are  they,  besides,  and  very  tumult- 
uous. Poetry  has  sung  thy  praises,  and  eloquence 
spouted  thy  glorification.  And  I  have  believed  them, 
—  have  yielded  myself  to  the  fascination  of  the  delusive 
song,  that,  like  the  chant  of  the  siren,  has  brought  me 
to  sorrow  and  misery.  Henceforth,  0  Ocean  !  when 
thy  beauties  I  would  contemplate,  I  will  hie  me  to  a 
high  hill  and  feast  my  eyes,  nor  trust  thy  unstable 
waters  more." 


328  HOW   CURIOUS  IT  IS! 

HOW    CURIOUS    IT    IS! 

WHEN  the  life  of  Daniel  Webster  —  that  grand  drama 
—  was  about  drawing  to  a  close,  he  is  represented  to 
have  said,  "Life  —  Life  —  how  curious  it  is!"  The 
word  curious  was  deemed  a  strange  one,  but  it  ex- 
pressed the  very  thing.  How  curious  life  is,  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave  !  The  forming  mind  of  child- 
hood, busy  with  the  present,  and  unable  to  guess  the 
secret  of  its  own  existence,  is  curious.  The  hopes  of 
youth  are  curious,  reaching  forward  into  the  future,  and 
building  castles  in  the  perspective  for  those  who  enter- 
tain them,  that  will  fade  away  in  the  sunlight  of  an 
older  experience.  How  curious  is  the  first  dawning  of 
love,  when  the  young  heart  surrenders  itself  to  its 
dreams  of  bliss,  illumined  with  —  moonshine  1  How  curi- 
ous it  is,  when  marriage  crowns  the  wishes,  to  find  the 
cares  of  life  but  begun,  and  the  path  all  strewn  with 
anxieties,  that  romance  had  depicted  as  a  road  of 
flowers  !  How  curious  it  is,  says  the  young  mother,  as 
ehe  spreads  upon  her  own  the  tiny  hand  of  her  child, 
and  endeavors  to  read,  in  its  dim  lines,  the  fortune 
there  hidden  !  Curious,  indeed,  would  such  revealing 
be.  How  curious  is  the  greed  for  gain  that  controls 
too  much  the  life  of  man,  leading  him  away  after 
strange  gods,  forgetting  all  the  object  and  good  of  life 
in  a  chase  for  a  phantom  light,  that  ends  at  last  in  three- 
fold Egyptian  darkness  !  How  curious  is  the  love  of  life 
that  flings  to  the  old,  and  draws  them  back  imploringlv 
to  earth,  begging  for  a  longer  look  at  time  and  its  fri- 
volities, with  eternity  and  all  its  joys  within  their  reach  ! 
How  curious  it  is,  when  at  length  the  great  end  draws 
nigh, — the  glazing  eye,  the  struggle,  the  groan,  pro- 
claiming dissolution,  and  the  still  clay  —  so  still  !  —  that 


EAETH  SPEAKETH  TO  EARTH.          329 

lately  stood  by  our  side  in  the  pride  of  health  and  hap- 
piness !  How  curious  it  is  that  the  realities  of  the  im- 
mortal world  should  be  based  upon  the  crumbling 
vanities  of  this,  and  that  the  path  to  infinite  life  should 
be  through  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grave  !  How  curi- 
ous it  is,  in  its  business  and  its  pleasures,  its  joys  and 
its  sorrows,  its  hopes  and  its  fears,  its  temptations  and 
its  triumphs ;  and,  as  we  contemplate  life  in  all  its  mani- 
festations, we  needs  must  exclaim,  "  How  curious 
'*t  is ! " 


EARTH    SPEAKETH    TO    EARTH. 

.A   GRAVE  LYRIC. 

I  LEANED  me  over  a  grave-yard  wall, 

Where  the  grass  before  me  grew  rank  and  tall, 

And  bowed  in  the  wind  its  heavy  head, 

As  if  in  reverence  for  the  dead  ; 

The  acacia-tree  rustled  its  mournful  leaves, 

Like  the  rustle  of  silk  when  the  widow  grieves  : 

As  I  listened,  a  still  voice  met  my  ear  — 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here ! 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 
Said  the  old  calm  grave-yard  dark  and  drear  ; 
I  will  hold  you  clasped  in  a  fond  embrace, 
And  watch  o'er  your  silent  resting-place. 
The  grand  old  trees  o'er  your  bed  shall  swing. 
And  the  birds  in  the  waving  branches  sing  ; 
Naught  shall  disturb  your  slumbering  ear  — 
Come  over  here  !  come  over  here ! 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 
Leave  the  world  with  its  tumult,  its  strife  and  fear : 
Here  is  peace  that  speaks  from  the  deep  green  grass 
In  whispers,  as  o'er  it  the  breezes  pass  ; 
Here  is  quiet  and  rest  to  the  weary  heart, 
That  long  has  suffered  'neath  sorrow's  smart  ; 
0,  leave  the  heart-ache  anguish  drear  — 
Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 
28* 


330  WITHOUT   A  SPECK. 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 
This  is  the  garner  of  many  a  year  ; 
This  is  the  bourn  where  the  weary  rest, 
The  high  and  lowly,  the  bad  and  best  ; 
Their  voice  is  stilled  and  their  heart  is  cold, 
In  the  chilly  damp  of  the  grave-yard  mould, 
But  from  their  forms  bright  things  uprear  — 
Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 

The  cliild,  and  the  youth,  and  the  old  man  sere, 

Have  lent  their  strength  and  lent  their  charms 

To  grace  the  grave-yard's  folding  arms  ! 

I  will  deck  your  couch  with  the  vernal  flowers, 

And  tears  shall  fall  in  the  summer  showers, 

The  smiling  sun  your  bed  shall  cheer  — 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  herp  ! 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 

0,  gaze  not  on  me  with  looks  of  fear. 

I  will  clasp  you  close  to  my  motherly  heart 

Till  you  grow  of  my  very  self  a  part ; 

My  teeming  breast  shall  yield  anew 

With  the  strength  of  its  motherly  love  so  true  ; 

For  the  mother  earth  loves  her  children  dear  — 

Come  over  here  !  come  over  here  ! 


WITHOUT    A    SPECK. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON,  in  speaking  of  one  who  had  enjoyed 
the  blessing  of  good  sight  up  to  a  late  period  of  her 
life,  said  "  she  never  had  a  speck  on  in  her  life."  What 
a  consolation  it  would  be  for  us,  when  we  get  into  the 
vale  of  years,  if,  in  "  looking  back  o'er  the  scene  of  our 
errors,"  we  could  say  the  same  in  a  moral  sense,  with 
never  a  speck  on  our  escutcheon  to  reproach  us  !  Alas  ! 
the  best  of  us,  in  such  position,  would  see  many  dark 
specks,  and  our  life,  like  a  pear  over-ripe,  prove  to  be 
infected  with  many  unsound  spots.  The  best  of  men 
have  so  little  to  be  proud  of!  —  even  those  who  are 


FORCED    OBEDIENCE.  331 

laboring  so  hard  in  behalf  of  fallen  man  now-a-days  may 
be  found  to  have  the  blemish  that  all  possess,  in  com- 
mon. This  is  Tcomforting  to  sinners  who  are  crowded 
down  by  disadvantageous  circumstances,  who  see  the 
shaky  tendency  of  those  better  than  they,  and  take 
courage.  The  suspicion  of  a  speck  redeems  the  human- 
ity of  the  very  perfect  man.  We  do  not  love  what  the 
world  calls  perfection.  It  has  no  heart  beneath  its 
jacket ;  the  throb  of  sympathy  is  not  there ;  it  has  no 
recognition  of  kindred  weaknesses  ;  it  forgets  old  ties 
and  old  obligations.  "We  like  to  think  of  the  worthies 
who  have  lived  of  yore  in  this  light  of  imperfection — 
to  think  of  men  with  a  speck  or  so  on  them,  be  it  never 
so  small.  To  think  of  Washington,  and  Paul,  and  Peter, 
as  men,  makes  us  love  them  better  than  though  they 
were  myths.  St.  Peter's  impetuosity  and  Paul's  temper 
endear  them  to  us  ;  and  after  reading  the  denial  scene, 
we  say,  "  Peter,  you  acted  like  a  man  ; "  and  his  peni- 
tence was  more  manly  still. 


FORCED     OBEDIENCE. 

I  SAW  a  damsel  holding  by  a  string 

A  little  puppy,  who,  disposed  to  stray, 
Choked  at  restraint,  and  made  a  frequent  spring 

In  effort  vain  to  tear  himself  away. 
But  yet,  the  more  he  strove,  the  more  he  choked, 

Until  he  deemed  his  conduct  would  n't  pay, 
And  moved  along  as  though  he  were  provoked, 

And  held  his  head  down  in  a  sullen  way. 
My  soul  was  touched  the  emblem  thus  to  see 

Of  life's  too  frequent  scenes,  where  day  by  day 
Strings  clog  the  spirit's  elasticity, 

And  kill  the  willingness  that  would  obey,  — 
Men,  like  the  puppy,  follow  at  a  word, 
But,  try  to  drag  them,  and  their  dander  'a  stirred. 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

IT  is  a  simple  story,  possessing  moderate  interest, 
of  an  every-day  life.  Things  of  a  stranger  character 
than  these  described  are  happening  all  the  time,  and  a 
writer  need  scarcely  draw  on  fancy  for  his  incidents, 
when  there  are  realities  enough  about  him,  made  to  his 
hand.  The  chief  character  is  no  "  Don  "  or  "  Lord  ;  "  but 
a  plain  man,  born  of  plain  parents,  and  destined  for  the 
same  plain  duties  and  struggles  that  await  all  who  are 
born  outside  the  pale  of  luxurious  plenty.  James  Tre- 
vor was  a  quick-witted  and  ready  youth,  indifferently 
honest,  very  ambitious,  and  passably  good-looking;  a 
fair  average  character,  as  a  boy,  —  prone  to  trade  and 
boyish  speculation,  in  which  he  always  came  off  best, — 
selfish  as  boys  almost  always  are,  and  enjoyed  the  repu- 
tation of  being  "  dreadful  smart,"  which  old  Jacob  Tre- 
vor, his  father,  was  very  proud  to  hear,  seeing  in  the 
promise  of  the  title-page  a  richly-wrought  book,  as  full 
of  good  things  as  a  Thanksgiving-day  is  of  blessings. 

Mr.  Trevor  was  an  old  farmer  in  a  back  town  in  Mas- 
sachusetts —  Sweetfern,  I  will  call  it,  though  there  is 
not  a  sprig  of  that  fragrant  herb  within  many  miles  of 
it.  He  was  well  to  do,  as  everybody  said,  though  not 
rich.  His  farm  had  come  to  him  from  his  father,  one  of 
the  earliest  settlers  of  Sweetfern,  and  was  the  most  fer- 
tile of  any  in  the  section  where  it  was  located.  The  land 
was  watered  by  a  beautiful  stream  that  flowed  among 

(332) 


A  LIFE'S  FOKTUNES.  333 

the  hills,  which  now  serves  as  a  power  to  turn  the 
wheels  of  thriving  manufactories,  but,  at  the  time  of 
which  I  write,  was  deemed  simply  a  manifestation  of 
the  good-will  of  Providence  towards  the  Trevors.  The 
Trevors  were  out  in  the  Revolution,  and  James  could 
point  to  Bennington  and  Saratoga,  in  which  his  grand- 
father and  father  both  figured,  or  go  away  back  into  the 
French  war,  where  his  grandfather  was  wounded  in  the 
ambuscade  at  Fort  Edward,  at  the  time  Colonel  Wil- 
liams was  killed. 

When  James  Trevor  was  about  sixteen  years  old, 
his  father  informed  him  that  he  had  procured  him  a 
position  in  a  store,  in  a  town  some  miles  away  from 
Sweetfern;  which  announcement  he  received  with  great 
pleasure,  as  he  had  become  weary  of  the  monot- 
ony of  farm-life.  The  store  was  a  new  field  for  the 
development  of  his  budding  genius,  and  he  accepted 
the  position  without  any  hesitation.  The  next  week 
saw  him  installed  in  the  coveted  situation.  It  was  a 
large  country  store,  occupied  by  Edes  &  Co.,  the  name 
of  which  firm  was  blazoned  on  a  wide,  white  sign,  ex- 
tending along  the  whole  iront  of  the  largest  building  in 
the  place  ;  and,  by  the  side  of  the  door,  on  long  strips 
of  black  board,  were  painted  the  names  of  the  various 
articles  sold  there  —  molasses  and  muslin,  tobacco  and 
tongues-and-sounds,  crockery  and  crackers,  Indian-meal 
and  indigo,  hats  and  hay,  calcined  magnesia  and  calico, 
and  "  other  articles  too  numerous  to  mention,"  as  the 
advertisement  of  the  firm  in  the  local  paper  expressed 
it.  It  was  said  of  Edes'  plug-tobacco,  by  the  farmers, 
that  he  soaked  it  in  a  little  brandy  and  a  little  molasses, 
and  it  was  as  good  as  any  they  ever  wanted  to  see. 
Contented  souls  1  they  had  not  yet  dreamed  of  the  bliss 
of  silver-leaf. 


334  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

Thus,  at  sixteen,  James  Trevor  found  himself  in  busi- 
ness, indentured,  as  was  the  custom  in  those  days,  to 
learn  the  trade  of  a  country  storekeeper,  with  a  quick 
fortune  and  .a  life  of  dignified  ease  in  perspective.  He 
dashed  into  the  performance  of  his  duties  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  boy,  and  became  very  soon  convinced 
that  on  his  individual  efforts  alone  the  existence  of  the 
firm  of  Edes  &  Co.  particularly  depended.  Mr.  Edes 
was  an  aristocrat,  by  nature,  —  a  village  aristocrat,  one 
of  the  meanest  and  most  contemptible  of  that  class, 
who  by  a  shrewd  venture  in  early  life  had  made  a 
large  sum,  with  which  he  had  embarked  in  trade,  and 
been  very  successful.  Fortune,  however,  rather  than 
sagacity,  had  favored  him.  He  had  small  intelligence, 
and  less  feeling,  and  was  most  distinguished  for  the 
tenacity  with  which  he  would  hold  on  to  a  dollar  when 
he  got  it.  He  never  lost  a  cent  in  his  life,  and  never 
gave  away  one  until  he  had  ciphered  out  its  return 
through  some  other  channel.  He  was  a  strict  attendant 
upon  church,  and  his  whole  household  —  consisting  of 
an  only  daughter,  a  half-sister,  Mr.  Merrow,  the  Co.  of 
his  firm,  who  boarded  with  him,  and  James  Trevor  — 
were  expected  to  accompany  him ;  which  meant  that 
they  must  go  —  and  they  did. 

Julia  Edes,  the  daughter,  was  a  delicate  and  pensive 
child.  Her  mother  had  died  when  she  MTas  quite  young, 
and  her  father's  half-sister,  a  maiden  lady  of  forty,  had 
been  installed  mistress  of  the  household,  assuming  to 
herself  the  entire  charge  of  the  young  heiress,  a  charge 
which  the  unsympathetic  father  never  interfered  with. 
The  child's  outward  wants  were  all  attended  to,  as  was 
her  education ;  but  it  was  a  frosty  atmosphere  that 
her  shrinking  nature  had  to  develop  itself  in.  The  aunt, 
though  a  kind  woman,  had  no  feeling  in  common  with 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  335 

her  own.  Propriety  of  conduct  was  her  only  ideal  of 
human  excellence,  and  work  the  ultimate  of  human 
endeavor.  She  conceived  every  kind  of  pleasure  to  be 
sin ;  and  hence  all  of  the  promptings  of  the  young 
nature  of  her  charge  were  checked  by  the  hydrostatic 
-influences  that  weighed  her  down.  The  bounds  of  her 
association  with  other  children  were  meted  out  to  her, 
beyond  which  she  dare  not  go ;  and  constant  surveil- 
lance was  held  upon  her  conduct,  that  she  might  not  be 
led  into  any  insubordinate  mirth,  that  would  trench  on 
the  province  of  propriety.  One  ghastly  skeleton  stood 
forever  in  her  young  path  —  the  fear  of  offending ;  and, 
though  she  loved  her  aunt,  it  was  a  love  that  was  be- 
gloomed  by  that  estimable  woman,  who,  like  a  good 
many  other  estimable  persons,  placed  herself  between 
her  and  the  light  of  joy.  She  was  named  for  her  aunt, 
and  felt  grateful  for  many  attentions  ;  but  often,  in  the 
midst  of  her  tenderest  reflections  regarding  her,  the 
thought  would  steal  in  and  mar  all,  that  she  was  a 
slave,  and  that  the  poorest  child  that  sported  on  the 
village-green,  or  roamed  in  unrestrained  freedom  in  the 
fields  and  woods,  was  an  enviable  object. 

At  the  time  James  Trevor  came  to  reside  with  her 
father,  she  was  about  fifteen  years  old.  She  was  not 
handsome,  and  there  was  a  shyness  and  reserve  about 
her  that  rendered  her  anything  but  prepossessing.  Her 
pale,  wan  face  was  surmounted  by  very  dark  hair,  that 
hung  in  careless  masses  around  her  forehead.  Her  eyea 
were  black,  and  were  almost  all  the  time  bent  upon 
the  ground,  except  at  moments  when  the  utterance  of  a 
fine  sentiment,  or  a  note  of  music,  or  a  strange  voice, 
would  attract  her  attention.  One  quick  glance  would 
then  betray  her  pleasure  or  her  curiosity,  instantly  to 
subside  again  into  seeming  indifference.  Such  she  ap- 


336  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

peared  to  him  when  she  first  fell  beneath  his  eye,  and 
he  made  up  his  mind  that  a  union  with  his  master's 
daughter  at  least  would  form  no  part  in  his  programme 
of  prospective  greatness.  Beyond  merely  looking  at 
her  once  or  twice  his  interest  did  not  extend ;  for 
an  introduction  was  not  deemed  essential.  He  was  a 
proper,  smart-looking  lad,  of  which  it  is  presumed  the 
young  lady  took  notice  ;  for,  after  she  had  retired  to 
her  chamber  with  her  aunt,  she  remained  for  some  time 
very  thoughtful,  and  then  said, 

,  "  Aunt,  don't  you  think  the  young  man,  down  stairs, 
very  good-looking?" 

"  Child  ! "  replied  the  aunt,  with  a  tone  of  sternness 
that  turned  the  maiden's  heart  to  stone,  and  her  lips  to 
iron  rigidity,  "  your  question  is  highly  improper." 

That  was  the  end  of  the  first  lesson,  so  far  as  pro- 
priety had  anything  to  say  about  it;  but,  dashing 
madly  through  her  brain,  came  troops  of  bewildering 
thoughts,  that  made  her  downy  pillow  a  scene  of  wild 
fancies.  Love  reared  an  idol  before  her,  crowned  with 
beauty  and  grace.  It  smiled  upon  her,  and  pointed  to 
a  vacant  pedestal  by  its  side,  which,  when  she  strove  to 
ascend  it,  crumbled  to  pieces  ;  and,  as  she  gazed,  the- 
idol  also  faded  away,  the  roses  turned  to  thorns,  and  a 
mocking  laugh  greeted  her  ears  as  she  awoke.  She 
was  glad  the  vision  had  passed,  and  felt  provoked  that 
it  had  obtruded  itself,  unsolicited,  especially  because  it 
had  not  ended  happily,  as  all  dreams  of  love  should, 
agreeably  to  the  rule  of  romance.  James  Trevor  slept 
soundly  enough  all  night ;  for  his  was  a  mind  not  yet 
capable  of  dreaming  of  anybody  or  anything  but  himself. 

First  meetings  are  always  tender  turning-points  in  a 
story,  wherein  mutual  love  springs  into  life  with  the 
glance  of  the  eye  or  the  pressure  of  the  hand.  But, 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  337 

from  the  very  material  fact  that  neither  the  glance  of 
the  eye  nor  the  pressure  of  the  hand  were  exchanged, 
I  am  denied  the  delightful  task  of  describing  any  such 
phenomenon.  They  met  for  some  time  as  strangers, 
never  speaking  a  word,  although  glances  were  accident- 
ally exchanged  by  them  at  times,  throwing  both  into 
inexplicable  confusion,  as  though  they  had  done  some 
guilty  thing  in  looking  at  each  other. 

It  was  on  the  second  Sunday  of  James  Trevor  at  the 
Edes's,  while  on  their  way  to  meeting,  that  Mr.  Edes,  who 
walked  behind  with  Mr.  Merrow,  called  his  sister  to  his 
side  to  speak  to  her  upon  some  matter  then  uppermost 
in  his  mind,  leaving  Julia,  with  whom  she  had  been 
walking,  alone.  By  one  of  those  strange  accidents, 
that  happen  with  great  opportuneness  to  draw  people 
together,  as  though  there  were  some  invisible  master 
of  ceremonies  engaged  in  an  eccentric,  though  sensible, 
mode  of  introduction,  Julia's  handkerchief  was  swept 
out  of  her  hand  by  a  gust  of  wind  that,  with  sportive 
violence,  rolled  it  over  and  over  in  the  dirt,  and  bore  it 
along  with  great  rudeness,  depositing  it  at  the  feet  of 
James  Trevor,  who  was  walking  along  ahead  of  the 
party,  unmindful  of  anything  that  was  transpiring.  He 
came  near  stepping  upon  the  delicate  fabric,  but  did 
not ;  and,  as  it  rolled  over  again,  as  if  to  take  another 
start,  he  reached  down  and  seized  it,  somewhat  as 
though  he  were  afraid  of  it,  and,  turning  back,  placed 
it,  with  a  low  bow,  in  the  young  lady's  hand.  She 
received  it  with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  a  "  Thank  you," 
that  by  its  sweetness  gave  him  a  thrill  of  pleasure  he 
had  never  before  experienced.  He  walked  along  by 
her  side,  occasionally  glancing  at  her  through  the  coi- 
ner of  his  eye,  and  began  to  think  she  was  very  pretty ; 
her  form,  too,  taking  new  grace  in  his  fancy.  He 
29  22 


338  A   LIFE'S   FORTUNES. 

could  n't  say  anything,  however,  though  he  made  twenty 
attempts  to  speak.  He  had  ideas  enough,  but  he  couldn't 
think  of  them.  At  last,  he  mustered  resolution  to  say; 
"  Miss  Edes,  I  hope  we  shall  be  friends."  It  was  an 
immense  speech,  and  its  tone  was  tender  and  manly, 
too  ;  and  she  replied,  with  charming  frankness,  "  I  hope 
so/  with  all  my  heart ;  for  I  have  very  few  friends." 
Her  voice  trembled  as  she  said  this,  the  tone  of  which 
set  him  to  thinking  how  fine  it  would  be  if  she  were 
shut  up  in  a  castle,. and  were  to  wave  her  handkerchief 
from  some  loophole,  and  he  should  see  it,  and  should 
rush  in  and  kill  a  dragon  or  two,  and  the  entire  garrison 
of  men-at-arms,  and  set  her  free,  and  she  should  accept 
him  as  her  lover !  The  train  of  his  thought  here  ran 
off  the  track,  as  the  aunt  took  her  place  by  the  side  of 
her  niece,  freezing  James  Trevor  into  his  old  position, 
though  he  turned  the  sweet  little  sentence  over  in  his 
mind  that  had  echoed  his  hope,  and  dwelt  upon  the 
unhappiness  conveyed  in  the  remark  that  she  had  very 
few  friends. 

This  first  day  was  the  beginning  of  a  more  intimate 
relation  between  the  two.  They  met  now  as  friends, 
whenever  they  did  meet,  though  the  occasions  were 
rare.  The  keen  eye  of  the  aunt  saw  the  impropriety 
of  their  meeting  alone,  and  she  always  was  in  the  way 
at  such  meetings.  The  restraint  thus  placed  upon  them 
was  a  continued  invitation  to  break  through  it ;  and 
the  catastrophe  feared  and  guarded  against  transpired 
through  the  excess  of  vigilance  used  for  its  prevention. 
The  boy  and  girl  —  now  older,  as  two  years  had  elapsed 
since  they  had  first  met,  and  he  had  grown  in  manly 
grace,  and  she  in  womanly  development  —  had  actually 
fallen  over  ears  in  love.  They  had  stolen  many  a  march 
on  the  old  aunt,  by  letter,  and  by  such  blissful  snatches 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  339 

of  time  as  chance  had  favored  them  withal;  and  they 
had  found  many.  A  low  balcony  that  ran  by  her  cham- 
ber window  admitted  of  many  a  meeting  in  the  slimmer 
nights,  for  your  lover  has  ever  been  as  spry  as  a  cat.  All. 
noticed  the  change  in  the  fair  Julia's  manner,  for  she  had 
wonderfully  improved.  From  the  dull  and  moping  girl, 
she  became  lively  and  vivacious,  and  even  "  Old  Pro- 
priety," as  James  Trevor  profanely  termed  the  aunt,  ad- 
mitted that  she  had  never  known  so  wonderful  a  change. 

Alas  !  that  ]  must  dash  this  beautiful  scene  to  pieces, 
and  strew  salt  upon  its  ground,  so  that  nothing  shall 
grow  there  more  !  But  I  am  truthful  in  my  narration, 
and  a  reputation  achieved  by  a  long  life  of  veracity 
must  not  be  endangered  by  any  wrong  statement.  A 
letter —  0,  that  lovers  should  ever  know  how  to  write  ! 
0,  that  they  knew  enough  to  avoid  ink  !  0,  that  they 
would  write  their  tender  missives  in  paregoric  or 
water  !  —  directed  to  "  Julia  Edes,"  appointing  a  meet- 
ing on  the  balcony,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  aunt, 
instead  of  the  daughter.  The  night  was  dark,  and  the 
youth,  full  of  love  and  impatience,  climbed  upon  the 
balcony,  where  Julia  awaited  him.  It  was  the  wrong 
Julia,  though,  and,  as  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  un- 
aware of  the  difference,  in  his  impetuosity,  and  im- 
printed a  dozen  kisses  upon  her  lips,  she  brought  him 
a  box  upon  his  ear  that  almost  knocked  him  down,  say- 
ing, at  the  same  time, 

"  There,  you  sauce-box,  take  that !" 

He  had  already  taken  it,  and  her  remark  seemed 
superfluous,  considering  that  fact.  He  mumbled  out 
eome  apology,  and  at  that  instant  the  window  opened, 
and  Mr.  Edes  stepped  out,  having  been  attracted  by  his 
Bister's  sharp  voice. 

"  What 's  the  matter?"  was  his  question.   "  Thieves  ?" 


340  A   LIFE'S   FORTUNES. 

" The  matter ! "  said  she,  tartly.  "  0,  nothing,  nothing . 
This  youngster  has  presumed  to  make  an  appointment 
to  meet  Julia  here  on  the  balcony,  that 's  all ;  and,  as  I 
chose  to  take  her  place,  I  came  very  nigh  being  smoth- 
ered with  kisses." 

"Young  man,"  said  Mr.  Edes,  drawing  himself  up 
from  five  feet  eight  to  five  feet  eight  and  a  half,  "  have 
you  presumed  to  take  such  liberties  with  my  child  and 
sister?" 

"I  have,  sir,"  said  James,  boldly;  "and  all  that  1 
regret  about  it  is  that  I  made  this  mistake.  I  certainly 
never  should  have  taken  such  liberties  with  your  sister, 
had  I  seen  who  it  was." 

"  And  have  you  no  regrets  to  express  at  your  men 
dacious  —  mendacious  —  impropriety  in  presuming  to 
make  an  appointment  with  my  daughter,  sir?"  said  the 
old  man,  sternly. 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied,  frankly;  "I  could  not  help 
loving  her,  as  she  loves  me.  We  have  told  each  other 
so,  whenever  we  could ;  and  I  have  hoped  that  some 
day,  when  I  was  a  man,  she  would  be  my  wife,  with 
your  consent." 

"How  improper  1"  said  Miss  Edes,  holding  up  both 
her  hands. 

"Well,  young  man,"  continued  Mr.  Edes,  "you  can 
be  no  longer  a  resident  of  my  house  ;  this  presumption 
divides  us.  I  have  a  higher  aim  for  my  daughter,  and 
with  the  morning  you  will  depart  for  your  home." 

James  clambered  down  from  the  balcony  as  heavily 
as  though  two  fifty-sixes  had  been  thrust  into  his  coat- 
pockets  ;  but  it  was  really  because  his  heart  was  so 
heavy.  He  crawled  away  to  his  chamber,  mortified  and 
chagrined,  and  then  sat  down  and  wrote  Julia  a  letter, 
vowing  constancy,  and  swearing,  in  the  approved  style, 


A  LIFE'S   FORTUNES.  341 

that  he  would  come  back  and  marry  her,  when  he  had 
won  fortune,  which  he  was  sure  to  do.  He  sealed  his 
letter,  and,  stealing  out,  placed  it  beneath  her  door; 
then,  putting  a  few  things  together,  he  stepped  lightly 
down  the  stairs,  and  passed  out  of  the  house  forever. 
His  path  led  by  the  store,  the  key  of  which  he  had  in  hia 
pocket.  Recollecting  some  trifle  that  he  wished  to  take 
with  him,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  in.  The  old 
store-dog  growled  fiercely  as  he  entered,  but,  perceiv- 
ing who  it  was,  he  licked  the  hand  held  out  to  him,  and 
took  his  place  upon  the  mat,  where  he  had  been  sleep- 
ing, satisfied  that  all  was  right. 

A  wicked  spirit  was  near  James  Trevor  as  he  stood 
there,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  many  tempting  and 
insidious  words.  "  There  is  money  in  the  safe,  as  you 
know,"  it  said,  "  which  you  must  have,  in  order  to  get 
away.  You  have  earned  it,"  the  voice  continued  ;  "  you 
have  not  been  half  paid  :  take  it.  Revenge  is  sweet, 
James  Trevor,  and  you  cannot  touch  the  old  hunks  so 
keenly  as  through  his  pocket."  Alas,  for  poor  human 
weakness  and  dull  conscientiousness  !  the  tempter  won ; 
and,  though  a  good  spirit  whispered  "  Julia,"  the  rus- 
tling of  the  bank-notes  he  was  handling  drowned  the 
sound,  and,  pocketing  a  considerable  sum  of  the  money, 
he  passed  out  into  the  world,  appeasing  the  little  con- 
science that  troubled  him  with  the  assurance  that  he 
would  pay  the  amount,  with  interest,  when  he  came  back 
rich.  He  threw  the  key  of  the  store  into  a  pond,  and* 
struck  across  the  fields  in  an  opposite  direction  from 
his  home,  to  where  a  stage-road  led  to  the  seaboard. 
He  thought  that  they  would  not  miss  the  money  for 
several  days,  and  then,  as  he  had  left  no  traces  of  his 
being  in  the  store,  that  they  would  have  no  proof  that 
he  had  stolen  it ;  and  he  reckoned  rightly. 
29* 


342  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

The  amount  taken  was  part  of  a  large  sum  reserved 
to  pay  for  an  invoice  of  goods  expected  to  arrive  by 
the  slow  wagons  that  plied  between  Campton  and  the 
seaboard,  and  it  was  not  missed  until  the  package  was 
removed  from  the  safe  for  conveyance,  by  the  stage- 
driver,  to  its  destination.  Confusion  instantly  prevailed 
when  the  loss  was  discovered.  Mr.  Edes  raved  in  a 
manner  very  severe,  accusing  everybody  of  a  dispo- 
sition to  swindle  him;  when  some  one,  in  order  to  vindi- 
cate himself  from  so  general  a  charge,  asked  if  James 
Trevor  might  not  have  taken  it,  as  he  had  so  very  mys- 
teriously disappeared  from  the  store,  which  disappear- 
ance he  and  the  other  associate  had  vainly  tried  to 
account  for.  The  suggestion  was  made  to  Mr.  Merrow, 
who  gladly  received  it,  as  he  had  latterly  taken  a  repug- 
nance to  the  young  man,  on  account  of  the  interest 
manifested  in  him  by  Julia,  which  his  jealous  instincts 
lad  perceived,  whose  good  graces  he  wished  to  secure 
to  himself.  He  immediately  mentioned  the  suggestion 
to  Mr.  Edes,  who,  admitting  its  reasonableness,  became 
more  frantic,  and  at  once  sent  a  messenger  to  Sweet- 
fern  to  bring  the  fugitive  back,  as  he  conceived  he  had 
taken  that  direction. 

Great  was  the  astonishment  of  old  Mr.  Trevor  at  the 
tale  the  messenger  told  him  of  the  disappearance  of  his 
son,  and  his  imputed  dishonesty.  It  was  a  severe  blow 
to  him,  as  his  hope  of  his  son's  greatness  had  grown 
with  time.  Now  dishonor  and  shame  were  about  to 
descend  upon  a  name  that  had  long  been  respectable. 
He  went  back  to  Campton  with  the  messenger,  and  was 
informed  by  Mr.  Edes,  in  private,  of  the  boy's  presump- 
tion,—  he  would  not  for  many  dollars  have  the  fact 
public,  —  and  of  the  probability  of  his  dishonesty. 
There  was,  it  is  true,  no  positive  proof  that  he  had 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  343 

«w 

committed  the  crime,  but  he  would  advertise  him  through 
the  country,  and  have  him  brought  back  for  trial.  The 
father  saw  all  this  through  his  fears,  and  compromised 
the  matter  by  supplying  the  missing  amount.  He  sor- 
rowfully returned,  with  the  reluctantly-admitted  belief 
that  his  son,  for  whom  he  had  indulged  such  hope,  was 
a  villain.  He  was  a  wanderer,  he  knew  not  where,  and 
there  was  no  possibility  of  communicating  with  him,  in 
order  to  make  an  effort  to  save  him,  if  he  had  not  fallen 
irremediably. 

The  letter  that  her  departed  lover  had  written 
to  Julia  had  not  reached  its  destination,  and  the 
poor  girl  knew  not  what  had  befallen  him.  His  ab- 
sence alarmed  her,  and,  in  reply  to  the  timid  question 
she  asked  her  aunt  regarding  him,  she  was  told  that  he 
had  stolen  money  from  her  father  and  run  away.  What 
a  blow  was  this  for  young  love  !  But  her  faith  in  her 
lover's  honesty  was  strong,  even  though  appearances 
might  be  against  him.  Yet  why  should  he  have  gone, 
at  all  ?  and  why  should  he  not  have  told  her  that  he 
was  going  ?  The  questions  were  very  perplexing,  and 
the  attempt  to  solve  them  wrought  a  fever  of  anxiety 
in  her  mind,  that  brought  with  it  the  illness  of  body 
that  follows  despair.  It  was  long  before  she  recov- 
ered, and  when  restored  to  health  her  step  had  lost  its 
elasticity,  and  her  eye  the  joyous  fire  that  had  charac- 
terized it  when  reflecting  the  sunlight  of  requited  love. 
(I  have  submitted  the  close  of  the  preceding  sentence  to 
the  criticism  of  those  who  have  for  twenty  years  been 
accustomed  to  read  love-stories,  and  they  say  that  the 
"  sunlight  of  requited  love  "  is  good.  Poor  Julia  !) 

We  left  James  Trevor  on  the  road,  waiting  for  the 
stage-coach,  with  determination  in  his  heart,  and  stolen 
money  in  his  pocket.  Tender  thoughts  of  Julia  flitted 


344  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

through  his  mind,  amid  the  whirl  of  conflicting  emotions, 
like  the  gleam  of  an  angel's  wing  in  the  dun  and  smoke 
of  battle.  For  a  moment  he  would  feel  like  %  scoundrel; 
and  then  the  tempter,  who  had  never  left  him,  would 
whisper  "  Chicken-hearted  milksop  "  in  his  ear,  and  sug- 
gest that  it  was  "  only  a  loan."  About  the  time  the 
stage  came  along,  he  felt  quieted,  and  mounted  to  the 
top  with  something  like  cheerfulness  in  his  manner.  It 
was  a  delightful  morning  in  summer ;  the  birds  sang 
from  every  bush,  and  universal  nature  seemed  glow- 
ingly alive  with  melody  and  bloom.  A  grateful  cool- 
ness filled  the  air,  which  flung  incense  abroad  from 
myriad  censers,  and  the  human  soul,  rightly  attuned, 
arose  with  the  spirit  of  the  morning  in  responsive  praise. 

There  was  on  the  outside  of  the  stage,  with  James 
Trevor,  a  rough  and  poor-looking  man,  whose  cheerful 
and  pleasant  face  denoted  a  happy  heart  within.  He 
seemed  fully  alive  to  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  his 
lips  were  constantly  expressing  the  joy  that  filled  him. 

"  How  good  men  should  strive  to  be,"  he  said,  "  in 
view  of  the  blessings  the  good  Father  sends ! "  He  looked 
at  James,  as  he  spoke,  who,  with  a  half-consciousness 
that  he  could  read  his  secret,  faltered  out  a  timid 
"  Yes." 

"  But,  for  all  this  blessing,"  the  rough  man  continued, 
"  which  should  bring  us  to  our  knees,  we  return  nothing 
but  wrong-doing  and  baseness." 

James  tried  to  look  attentive  and  interested,  while  he 
felt  his  heart  beating  very  fast,  and  his  conscience 
sirely  troubled. 

"  Man  is  the  only  thing  in  the  universe,"  the  rough 
man  went  on,  "  that  is  false  to  God.  The  flowers  bloom, 
the  winds  blow,  the  stars  shine,  the  glorious  sun  warms 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  345 

and  invigorates,  and  all  are  '  good/  as  when  pronounced 
thus  in  Eden ;  but  man strange  perversity  !  " 

The  poor  runaway  could  not  resist  the  feeling  that 
had  been  coming  upon  him,  and  here  bowed  his  head 
with  the  deepest  contrition.  His  companion  observed 
it,  and,  thinking  James  some  boy  grieved  at  leaving 
home,  strove  to  comfort  him,  by  telling  him  that  with 
honesty  and  probity  he  might  secure  wealth  and  fame, 
and  return  again  to  honor  those  from  whom  he  had 
sprung.  But  the  counsel  only  added  fuel  to  the  fire. 
That  was  a  miserable  day  for  him  on  the  top  of  the 
coach,  and  he  was  very  glad  when  he  arrived  at  his  des- 
tination, and  pleased  to  be  rid  of  one  who,  it  seemed, 
had  either  been  especially  sent  to  torment  him,  or  as  an 
angel  to  warn  him  against  future  danger.  He  accepted 
the  latter  signification,  and,  sitting  down,  wrote  his 
father  the  whole  story  of  his  love,  and  his  indiscre- 
tion, and  his  dishonesty,  with  the  tale  of  his  strange 
conversion,  returning  the  money,  and  begging  forgive- 
ness, stating  his  determination  to  leave  the  country,  and 
never  come  back  until  he  had  made  fortune  enough  to 
claim  his  bride,  and  give  her  the  position  she  was  fitted 
to  grace.  From  this  time  he  became  a  wanderer  in 
search  of  fortune. 

There  is  a  description  of  special  Providence  in  the 
affairs  of  men,  termed  Good-luck;  and  those  favored  with 
it  have  but  to  will,  and  the  slaves  of  good-luck,  and  all 
the  other  slaves,  instantly  obey,  as  readily  as  did  the 
slaves  of  the  lamp  in  the  hands  of  Aladdin.  Their  touch 
Beems,  Midas-like,  to  turn  everything  to  gold.  They 
speak,  and  their  words  coin  into  guineas,  or  take  the 
form  of  bank-notes.  They  step,  and  whole  territories 
of  real  estate,  never  known  before,  spring  into  being. 
They  wave  their  hands,  and  mighty  factories  stand 


346  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

beside  the  subservient  streams.  The  converse  has 
too  many  disagreeable  associations  of  a  personal  char- 
acter to  induce  me  to  dwell  upon  it.  James  Trevor 
was  lucky.  He  had  changed  his  name,  and  had  found 
his  way  to  Hayti,  where,  in  a  few  years,  he  acquired  a 
sufficient  amount  to  justify  his  return  to  claim  his  bride, 
from  whom  he  had  not  heard  since  he  left  his  country. 
It  was  at  the  time  when  the  fever  of  the  revolution  had 
spread  to  the  outer  limit  of  the  French  jurisdiction,  and 
Hayti  was  in  a  great  state  of  fermentation.  The  antag- 
onism of  the  blacks  and  whites  was  every  day  growing 
more  and  more  bitter.  The  whites,  from  an  over- 
weening sense  of  their  own  superiority,  did  not  deign 
to  conciliate,  and  James  Trevor,  who  had  become  a 
prominent  man,  less  than  any;  for  one  who  has  only 
the  idea  of  achieving  gain  in  his  heart  has  small  room 
for  humane  considerations.  The  storm  so  long  gather- 
ing at  last  burst,  and,  just  upon  the  eve  of  Trevor's 
embarking  for  home,  and  when  he  had  adjusted  every- 
thing for  his  departure,  those  violent  scenes  began, 
which  ended  in  the  establishment  of  the  Haytien  republic, 
and  the  subjugation  of  the  whites.  Every  dollar  of  his 
money  was  swept  away,  and,  barely  escaping  with  bis 
life,  by  the  aid  of  a  faithful  slave,  he  was  again  cast 
upon  the  world. 

The  sweet  Julia  of  his  boyish  dreams  still  held  place 
in  his  affections ;  but  he  had  taught  himself  to  see  her 
only  through  a  worldly  mist  of  money  and  establish- 
ment,  and  doubt  of  womanly  constancy,  that  had  grown 
up  within  him  in  an  atmosphere  of  intrigue  and  licen 
tiousness,  caused  him  at  times  to  entertain  the  possi- 
bility that  she  had  forgotten  him;  and  these  feelings,  in 
his  hour  of  ruin,  came  upon  him  with  a  force  to  dispel 
the  half-formed  resolution  to  return,  while  pride,  that 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  347 

unsafe  counsellor,  recalled  the  promise  he  had  made  not 
to  return  until  he  was  rich.  "  I  will  keep  my  promise," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  he  did.  There  was  no  chance 
of  hearing  from  his  native  place,  it  being  remote  from 
the  seaboard,  and,  though  he  had  at  several  times  sent 
letters  to  Julia  and  his  father,  by  transient  ships,  to  be 
dropped  into  remote  post-offices,  those  letters  were 
never  received  by  those  to  whom  they  were  sent. 

Ten  years  more  had  passed  over  his  head,  and  once 
more  fortune  had  smiled  upon  him.  He  had  located 
tiimself  in  Marseilles,  and  —  0,  treachery  to  love  !  —  he 
was  about  to  marry.  The  gentle  Julia,  though  not  all 
forgotten,  had  become  the  memory  of  a  vision,  seen  in 
the  air  some  bright  morning,  that  the  sudden  cloud  had 
obscured,  or  of  an  angel  that  appeared  in  some  distant 
reverie,  impalpable  and  unsubstantial.  The  fascinating 
glitter  of  a  fashionable  woman  had  captivated  his  senses 
rather  than  won  his  heart,  and  he  was  about  to  marry 
her — as  thousands  marry,  most  happy  reader,  who  bind 
that  knot  with  their  tongue  that  their  teeth  cannot  un- 
tie, to  hold  them  in  irredeemable  wretchedness,  as  must 
be  the  case  where  love  sheds  not  its  benediction  —  see- 
ing nothing  beyond  present  aggrandizement  or  conve- 
nience. He  married,  and  the  white  image  of  Julia 
floated  out  of  his  mind,  as  the  angel  of  Peace  flees  the 
scene  where  the  demon  of  Discord  asserts  his  claim  for 
supremacy.  And  thus  we  leave  him,  selfish,  false,  un- 
grateful —  to  find  his  reward,  perhaps  ! 

The  gentle  Julia, in  all  these  years,  had  proved  true  to 
her  first  love,  treasuring  his  memory  with  commendable 
persistency,  which  must  have  been  very  refreshing  to 
witness.  We  know  nothing  like  it  in  these  latter  sea- 
sons, when  constancy  to  a  first  lover  depends  oftener 
upon  the  accident  cf  never  knowing  a  second  one  than 


348  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

upon  a  principle.  The  venerable  aunt  had  died  and 
been  buried  according  to  the  gravest  and  most  approved 
propriety,  and  mourned  up  to  the  expected  shade.  On 
her  death-bed  she  confessed  to  Julia  the  great  wrong 
she  had  done  her,  and  produced  the  very  letter  James 
Trevor  had  written  the  night  of  his  departure,  which 
she  had  adroitly  purloined,  having  suspected,  from  a 
shrewd  knowledge  of  human  nature,  that  he  would  write 
such  a  letter,  and  seen  him  from  her  own  door  deposit 
it  beneath  her  niece's.  That  letter  breathed  the  most 
ardent  promises  of  constancy,  and  vows  that  he  would 
return  to  marry  her  in  spite  of  "  Old  Propriety,"  and 
begging  her  to  be  true  to  him.  The  same  old  story  ! 

She  had  been  besieged  by  Merrow  as  soon  as  his  rival 
was  out  of  the  way,  but  was  obdurate  to  all  his  entrea- 
ties, and  had  uniformly  refused  to  listen  to  the  addresses 
of  any.  Time  found  her  an  heiress  of  her  father's  prop- 
erty, the  old  gentleman  having  paid  the  debt  of  nature 
without  a  discount,  which  was  considered  a  strange 
departure  from  his  usual  mode  of  operations.  The 
business  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Merrow,  who  had 
married,  and  who  became  purchaser  of  the  Edes  man- 
sion, the  daughter  desiring  to  remove  from  a  scene  to 
her  so  fall  of  painful  recollections.  This  she  did,  and, 
with  the  strange  and  unaccountable  caprice  of  woman's 
character,  chose  to  locate  in  the  very  city  from  which 
her  lover  had  taken  his  departure  in  quest  of  fortune. 
She  bought  a  residence  there,  and,  with  a  single  female 
companion,  spent  her  time  in  benevolent  actions. 

It  is  not  a  very  pleasant  part  of  a  writer's  duty  to 
kill  off  all  the  characters  of  his  story  before  the  denoue- 
ment, though  that  plan  is  adopted  sometimes  by  fiction- 
ists  when  they  wish  to  get  troublesome  people  out  of 
the  way,  Tbia  veracious  story,  however,  is  that  of  a 


A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES.  349 

life,  with  a  lapse  of  time  that  operates  with  subtle  and 
certain  force  upon  human  years,  as  most  people  know  ; 
therefore  they,  at  least,  will  not  be  surprised  when  we 
gather  old  Jacob  Trevor  to  his  fathers,  or  mention  that 
he  died  at  a  good  old  age,  the  farm  having  been  sold  to 
a  cotton  manufacturing  company,  and  the  money  there- 
for distributed  among  the  heirs-at-law. 

Few  were  living  that  could  have  recognized,  in  the 
rich  Mr.  Merton,  merchant,  of  Marseilles,  the  humble 
boy,  James  Trevor,  who  had  left  the  American  hills 
forty  years  before.  He  scarcely  knew  himself,  and 
scarcely  wished  to,  for  life  to  him  had  become  identified 
with  foreign  scenes  and  foreign  circumstances,  and  the 
money  was  all  there  for  which  he  had  sold  himself.  He 
had,  through  correspondents  in  New  York,  learned  of 
his  father's  death,  and  he  had  also,  by  the  same  means, 
learned  of  the  departure  of  the  Edes  family  from  Camp- 
ton.  His  domestic  life  had  been  a  stormy  one.  He 
had  no  children,  his  wife  was  wildly  extravagant,  and 
addicted  to  the  prominent  vices  incident  to  some  phases 
of  fashionable  life,  —  gambling  and  wine-drinking, — 
and  the  wealth  that  had  come  to  him,  under  the  domina- 
tion of  good-luck,  was  in  constant  danger  of  being  swept 
from  him  by  her  excesses.  Did  he  not  have  his  reward  ? 
At  length,  in  a  time  of  panic,  the  crash  came,  and,  ruined 
in  health,  commercial  credit,  and  personal  reputation, 
James  Trevor  found  himself  a  bankrupt.  His  wife  left 
him,  and  his  wreck  was  complete. 

But  he  was  richer  in  ruin  than  when  in  his  highest 
state  of  opulence.  It  led  him  to  think,  and  with  thought 
came  repentance,  and  with  repentance  resolution.  And, 
as  his  feelings  softened  in  the  atmosphere  of  trial,  the 
good  spirit  came  into  his  heart  again,  and,  though  years 
of  time  and  a  further  distance  of  estrangement  had 
30 


350  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

separated  them,  he  thought  of  Julia  Edes,  and  wept  — 
that  ruined  old  man  —  like  a  child.  He  never  was  so 
rich  in  his  life  as  at  that  moment.  His  soul  was  coining 
ingots  of  golden  treasure,  and  laying  it  up  in  a  heaven 
of  returning  tenderness.  To  talk  of  earthly  riches,  in 
comparison  to  this  I 

The  ship-fever  was  raging  among  emigrants  arrived 
at  the  city  where  the  "  good  Miss  Edes,"  as  the  poor 
called  her,  resided,  and  early  and  late  was  she  busy  in 
ministering  to  the  wants  of  the  sick  and  dying.  The 
hospitals  were  full,  and  nurses  were  hard  to  be  procured; 
so  she  herself  went  from  ward  to  ward,  alleviating,  as 
far  as  possible,  the  pain  of  the  sufferers.  Blessings  fol- 
lowed her  wherever  she  went.  One  morning  she  was 
told  that  a  poor  old  man  had  been  brought  in  during 
the  night,  and  there  was  no  place  for  him.  Every  bed 
was  full,  and  room  could  not  be  found  for  more. 

"Send  him  to  my  house,"  said  she;  "he  must  not 
suffer  for  this  care;"  and  he  was  accordingly  sent  there 
on  a  litter. 

As  soon  as  she  had  gone  the  round  of  her  duty,  she 
returned  to  her  home,  and  there,  upon  a  comfortable 
bed,  she  found  the  stranger.  The  fever  had  taken  a 
fearful  hold  upon  his  feeble  system,  and  upon  its 
paroxysms  delirium  attended.  She  merely  glanced  at 
him  as  he  lay  in  his  unconsciousness,  his  features  dis- 
figured by  the  disease,  and  gave  directions  to  the  phy- 
sician who  had  accompanied  her  home  to  bestow  on 
him  all  needed  attentions,  and  to  procure  a  nurse  for 
him,  whose  duty  she  would  for  the  present  perform.  He 
went  away,  and  left  her  alone  with  the  sick  man.  The 
sufferer  muttered  incoherently,  as  he  lay  with  his  eyes 
shut.  At  length  every  faculty  in  her  was  absorbed  by 
a  word  he  uttered.  She  did  not  breathe,  but  leaned 


A   LIFE'S   FORTUNES.  35 1 

over  him,  with  all  her  senses  acutely  alive,  to  catch  a 
repetition  of  the  sound. 

"  Julia  !  "  he  murmured,  "  dearest  Julia,  why  will  you 
not  come  to  me  ?  " 

She  looked  in  the  face  so  fearful  with  distemper,  and 
around  the  lips  she  saw  the  same  smile  that  had  beamed 
upon  her  in  the  long  years  ago,  never  once  forgotten ; 
a.id,  kneeling  down  by  the  bedside,  she  bowed  her  head 
upon  her  hands,  while  the  tears  —  tears  of  pity  and 
love  —  flowed  copiously,  and  cried  aloud,  from  the  ful- 
ness of  her  heart,  "  Thank  God !  thank  God !  "  The 
doctor,  on  his  return,  found  her  thus.  She  had  swooned 
from  excitement  and  exhaustion. 

The  life  of  the  stranger  was  spared,  and  through  the 
long  watches  of  his  illness  she  never  left  his  bedside. 
Slowly  he  recovered,  and  his  first  inquiry  was  as  to  the 
place  where  he  found  himself.  He  was  told  that  he 
was  in  the  house  of  a  friend,  who  would  see  that  all  his 
wants  were  answered. 

"  Thanks  — many  thanks,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  can  make 
no  return  for  your  kindness.  I  am  a  poor,  ruined  man, 
and,  though  I  recently  could  command  everything,  I  am 
now  dependent  upon  charity  for  my  very  life." 

He  lay  still,  but  his  proud  spirit  seemed  to  struggle 
with  the  ignominy  of  dependence,  and  with  a  deep  sigh 
he  fell  asleep,  —  into  one  of  those  half-conscious  sleeps 
wherein  the  soul  involuntarily  reveals  itself,  and  during 
which  she  often  heard  her  name  taken  upon  the  dream- 
er's lips.  But  now  a  fearful  storm  was  raging  in  his 
mind,  in  which  she  heard  more  than  she  should  have 
heard  of  reenacted  strife,  of  recrimination  and  retort, 
and  bitter  taunt,  and  severe  invective,  and  through  it  she 
knew  that  James  Trevor  had  proved  false  to  his  early 
Vows.  Bat  there  came  no  anger  with  the  thought. 


352  A  LIFE'S  FORTUNES. 

Her  love  for  him  was  too  pure  for  that .  it  sought  his 
good  and  happiness  alone,  irrespective  of  conditions 
As  she  listened  to  him,  the  storm  in  his  mind  subsided, 
and,  in  the  sweet  tones  of  the  olden  time,  again  came 
the  beloved  name  — 

"  Julia  !  " 

She  bent  over  him,  and,  taking  his  thin  hand  in  hers, 
looked  down  into  his  eyes  as  he  awoke,  and  breathed 
the  name  he  had  not  for  years  heard  — 

"  James  Trevor  !  " 

The  tenderness  and  singularity  of  this  scene  surpass 
all  my  powers  of  description.  I  could,  having  been 
young  myself,  describe  a  meeting  of  young  people 
under  such  circumstances;  but  these  were  venerable 
lovers,  and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  rhapsody 
of  youth  could  have  any  part  in  the  meeting.  There 
were  doubtless  a  few  kisses  exchanged  under  the  first  im- 
pulse, and  then  came  the  explanation  of  mutual  fortunes, 
tender  reminiscences,  and  future  prospects,  which  were 
not  very  bright  conjugally,  provided  they  had  been  still 
young,  with  an  ugly  French  wife  in  the  way.  But  the 
heyday  of  their  blood  had  grown  tame,  and  a  mellowed 
and  subdued  affection  had  taken  the  place  of  that  fiercer 
passion  which  marked  their  early  years.  It  was  no 
longer  passion,  and  in  the  calmness  of  its  sacred  glow 
they  both  found  a  healthy  happiness.  They  lived  in  the 
same  house  together  for  many  years,  agreeably  to  a 
propriety  that  would  have  delighted  Julia's  aunt ;  but 
his  arm  was  her  support,  and  her  affectionate  counsel 
his  encouragement  in  his  new  effort  to  be  a  better  man. 
And  thus  the  Fortunes  of  a  Life  turned  out. 


MOUNT  WASHINGTON.  353 

MOUNT    WASHINGTON. 

WKITTEN  AT  THE   GLEN   HOUSE. 

THE  Queen  of  Sheba  said  of  Israel's  glory, 

When  Solomon  his  wisdom  did  unfold  her, 
That  far  inadequate  was  every  story, 

And  not  one  half  the  truth  had  e'er  been  told  her. 

And  here,  Mount  Washington  above  me  rising, 

I  feel  myself  in  that  same  situation, 
For  not  a  tithe  of  all  its  wealth  surprising 

Hath  pen  or  tongue  made  fitting  revelation. 

0,  beautiful  and  grand  the  gross  amount 

Of  mountain  scene,  from  which  there  's  no  discounting; 
Where  Nature  figures  in  a  wild  account,  — 

Like  compound  interest,  evermore  a  "  mounting." 

I  watch  the  flitting  shadows  yonder  dancing 
Like  sportive  elves  among  the  granite  boulders ; 

Anon  I  see  the  cheerful  sunshine  glancing 
Like  epaulets  on  Washington's  broad  shoulders. 

Around  the  awful  peak  now  vapors  gather, 

And  darkly-lowering  clouds  the  valleys  threaten  ; 

There  's  no  postponement  on  account  of  weather, 
Or  compromising  to  defer  the  wettin'. 

The  lavish  rain  outpours,  —  I  hear  it  rushing 

Far  o'er  the  forest,  on  its  work  baptismal ; 
A  holy  wet  from  primal  fountains  gushing, 

That  gives  the  heart  no  contemplation  dismal. 

'Tis  past,  —  the  birds,  their  cheerful  song  renewing, 
Pour  forth  their  lays  in  grateful  adoration  ; 

The  rivulet,  its  pleasant  way  pursuing, 
Joins  its  glad  note  in  musical  oblation. 

The  self-same  song  comes  from  yon  sylvan  bowers, 
In  notes  as  wild,  as  sweet,  and  as  sonorous, 

As  when,  in  Nature's  first  awakening  hours, 
The  glad  creation  sang  Time's  opening  chorus. 
30*  23 


354  ALBUMINOUS. 

How  green  and  bright  the  garniture  appears 
Which  Nature  throws  about  those  kingly  bases ' 

Its  fashion  changeless  in  the  lapse  of  years, 
Perfection  found  in  its  primeval  graces. 

But  here  to  stand  and  view  it  I  'm  contented,— 
Though  others  soar,  it  is  not  my  ambition  , 

I  am  not  sad  that  I  have  been  prevented, 

For  those  who  've  soared  are  sorer  in  condition. 


ALBUMINOUS. 

APROPOS  of  Albums.  Some  regard  them  as  bores 
and  even  use  a  harsher  term  in  speaking  of  them,  and 
shudder  when  one  is  placed  in  their  hands,  as  some  sen- 
sitive people  do  when  asked  to  hold  a  baby.  The  voice 
asking  the  favor  of  a  line  in  an  album  sounds  harsh  and 
unpleasant  in  the  ears  of  such,  though  flute-like  in  its 
intonation,  and  the  request  to  climb  a  greased  pole,  or 
turn  a  back  somerset  in  the  street,  seems  easy  in  com- 
parison. My  boarding-house  experience  embraced  an 
endless  round  of  albums,  —  the  boarding-house  num- 
bering three  or  four  young  women  among  its  occu- 
pants, forming  a  sort  of  intellectual  exchange  of  such, 
—  and  it  was  the  practice  of  the  fair  owners  to  make  a 
direct  assault  upon  all  new-comers,  as  soon  as  the  cere- 
mony of  introduction  had  been  gone  through  with,  so 
that  the  albuminous  was  largely  predominant  in  our 
circle,  and,  like  mucilage,  made  us  stick  together. 
Those  albums  exhibited  very  fine  displays  of  rhetoric, 
representing  every  phase  of  intellectual  calibre,  ranging, 
as  may  be  imagined,  through  the  whole  field  of  profes- 
sion, with  very  doubtful  evidences  of  sincerity  in  any 
of  them.  Juliana!  0,  how  well  is  she  remembered, 
even  at  the  distance  of  ever-so-many  years,  with  her 


ALBUMINOUS.  355 

flaxen  hair  in  papers,  and  her  blue  eyes  beaming  upon 
the  boy  who  gazed  upon  them  with  a  feeling  of  admira- 
tion, that  it  took  a  long  time  to  prove  the  folly  of! 
Juliana's  album  was  the  most  favored.  Her  album  was 
made  the  altar  of  as  many  beautiful  fancies  as  there 
were  leaves  contained  in  it.  Herein  glowed  the 
thoughts  that  breathed  and  the  words  that  burned  with 
different  degrees  of  intensity.  Here  a  page  of  pink 
gleamed  with  couleur  de  rose  imaginings,  and  there  the 
yellow  bore  the  bilious  lucubrations  of  diseased  fancy  ; 
here  the  green  betrayed  the  verdancy  of  young  heart- 
burn, and  there  the  blue  glistened  with  fervent  words 
like  ^he  firmament  with  its  wealth  of  stars.  Above  and 
through  and  in  all,  the  sugar  of  flattery  prevailed,  to 
catch  the  credulous  fly,  Yanity  ;  and  succeeded  but  too 
well,  as  was  apparent  in  the  fact  that  one  page,  which 
contained  the  only  honest  sentiment  that  had  ever  been 
written  in  it,  was  torn  out,  on  the  pretence  that  it  was 
so  stupid  !  There  were  many  vows  and  many  protesta- 
tions, and  much  honey  about  the  leaves ;  but,  before  we 
divided,  the  falsity  of  half  the  two  former  had  been  seen, 
and  an  infusion  of  gall  in  the  latter  that  rendered  its 
sweet  slightly  acrid.  The  boarders  married  off,  or 
changed  their  boarding-places,  and  hatred,  or,  what  is 
worse,  indifference,  took  the  place  of  the  intense  senti- 
ment that  lied  still  upon  the  centre-table.  Poor  Juli- 
ana !  She  will  pardon  this  allusion  to  herself,  if  she  can 
stop  from  her  manifold  duties  long  enough  to  read  it ; 
for  she  is  now  a  woman  of  many  cares,  and  the  flaxen 
curls,  no  more  in  papers,  have  a  tinge  of  gray  pervad- 
ing them ;  but  her  album  was  a  model.  I  recollect  a 
tall,  sentimental  young  man  who  wrote  in  it,  —  who 
wore  his  collar  turned  over,  and  encouraged  a  slight 
beard  on  his  chin,  who  eschewed  meat,  and  chewed 


§56  ALBUMINOUS. 

Graham  bread  and  raisins,  to  induce  right  conditions  for 
intellectual  emanations.  His  muse  was  prolific,  and  we 
remember  well  the  pride  Juliana  displayed  when  she 
pointed  out  the  following : 

"TO   JULIANA. 

"The  harp  once  struck  to  that  dear  theme, 

My  Juliana's  prays, 
Should  never  sound  again,  I  deem, 
With  no  ignoble  lays. 

'*  My  harp,  a  loan,  her  prays  shall  sing ; 

No  other  theme  shall  dame 
To  hold  dominion  o'er  a  string 
Yet  thrilling  with  her  name. 

•'  The  wild  discordancy  of  life 

Around  may  roar  and  rave,  — 
Her  name  I  '11  sound  amid  the  strife, 
And  still  the  trubled  wave. 

"  And  though  we  part  to  meat  no  more, 

And  such  stern  fate  must  be, 

I  still  shall  look  towards  the  shoar 

Where  first  her  smiles  I  see." 

The  inspiration  was  apparent  in  the  bad  spelling,  and 
the  sincerity  in  the  fact  that  he  ran  away  without  pay- 
ing his  board,  leaving  the  "  shoar  "  and  Juliana's  smiles 
behind  him.  A  few  pages  further,  another  muse  blazed 
with  the  following : 

"TO    MISS    JULIANA. 

"  When  upon  these  lines  you  gaze, 
Think  of  him  who 's  gone  his  ways ; 
Think  of  him  that  once  you  knew, 
Who  will  evermore  prove  true  ; 
Think  of  him  who  on  life's  sea 
You  may  never  again  more  see  ; 


PARTED   TIES.  357 

Think  of  him  who  with  a  sigh 

Bid  you  and  your  mother  and  all  good-by, 

Then  in  the  depths  of  his  misery 

He  took  his  trunk  and  went  and  shipped  to  go  to  sea." 

These  two  specimens  are  sufficient.  Juliana  still 
keeps  the  book,  and  marks  are  discoverable  in  it  of  tear- 
drops, or  of  greasy  fingers,  and  it  is  an  object  of  great . 
interest  with  her  grown-up  daughter.  But  albums  are 
really  desirable  things,  discreetly  used.  They  embalm 
the  friendship  of  to-day,  and  may  be  made  the  mediums 
of  pleasant  and  affectionate  thought.  Dedicated  to 
high-toned  sentiment  and  sincerity,  they  become  invalu- 
able for  reference  in  after  time,  when  the  heart  is  sad 
with  stings  and  slights  the  world  inflicts.  Unworthy 
names  may  mar  their  pages,  but  they  may  be  easily  ex- 
punged, or  retained  as  mementoes  of  the  fact  thai  we 
are  all  weak  creatures,  and  liable  to  fall. 


PARTED    TIES. 

THE  hand  still  warm  with  the  imparted  touch 

Of  friendly  farewell,  and  the  ears  still  hearing 
The  sounds  of  kindness  that  we  've  prized  much, 

That  long  our  varied  pathway  have  been  cheering, 
We  scarce  can  deem  that  touch  has  been  the  last, 

Or  that  the  words  which  friendship's  tongue  has  spoken 
Will  be  but  tender  memories  of  the  past  — 

Strains  of  a  lute  whose  strings  are  rudely  broken 

'T  is  hard  to  feel  that  smiles  we  know  to-day, 

Blessing  our  pathway  with  their  radiance  cheering, 
May  ere  the  sunset  fade  in  gloom  away, 

In  death's  dark  shade  forever  disappearing  ; 
That  the  warm  heart  which,  throbbing  with  our  own, 

Has  felt  with  us,  e'en  now,  each  joy  and  sorrow, 
May  cease  its  sweet  and  sympathetic  tone, 

And  leave  us  sad  and  lonely  oil  the  morrow. 


358  UNCONDITIONAL   CHEERFULNESS. 

But  such  is  fate,  and  the  entwining  ties 

By  which  the  lives  of  men  are  here  united 
May  break  like  threads  of  wax  before  our  eyes, 

And  all  our  fondest  schemes  of  love  be  blighted ! 
Vicissitudes  o'er  every  moment  lower, 

And  life's  full  cup,  with  pleasure's  cordial  brimming. 
May  be  o'erturned  by  some  mysterious  power, 

Or  its  fair  surface  with  hot  tears  be  dimming. 

But  for  a  day  —  and  fairer  scenes  await 

The  passage  of  the  loved  across  the  river, 
And  what  we  know  as  Death  is  but  the  gate 

To  scenes  beyond  of  joy  and  peace  forever. 
And  we  take  heart  in  faith  sublime  as  this, 

And  see  a  loving  hand  to  us  extended, 
To  help  us  on  the  road  that  leads  to  bliss 

When  earth's  dull  pilgrimage  with  us  is  ended. 

We  joy  to  think  that  friends  thus  gone  before 

May  still  be  mingling  their  fond  hearts  with  ours , 
That  love  enkindled  on  time's  shifting  shore 

May  live  anew  with  more  exalted  powers  ; 
That  by  our  side  they  now  as  then  may  stand, 

And  smile  upon  us  with  benigner  feeling, 
Shedding  the  influence  of  the  better  land, 

And  newer  promise  of  its  state  revealing. 


UNCONDITIONAL    CHEERFULNESS. 

THE  snow  upon  a  morn  was  falling  fast, 

Borne  on  the  cold  and  driving  wind  along, 
When,  mid  the  whirl  of  snow-flakes  and  the  blast, 

Rose  the  sweet  cadence  of  a  robin's  song. 
Upon  a  leafless  bough  he  sat,  and  trilled 

His  matin-hymn  in  tone  as  glad  and  high 
As  if  the  air  with  blossomy  breath  were  filled, 

And  golden  sunshine  sparkled  in  the  sky. 
I  thought  how  like  was  this  to  that  true  soul 

Which  upward  soars  and  sings  mid  earthly  strife, 
That  yields  no  moment  to  adverse  control, 

But  makes  the  best  of  good  and  bad  in  life  ; 
That  feels  as  jolly  with  a  scolding  wife 
As  when  the  day  with  fortune's  gifts  is  rife. 


EMBLEMATIC.  359 

MRS.    PARTINGTON    GROWS    DESULTORY. 

"  THEEE  's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  the  lip," 
said  Mrs.  Partington,  with  a  philosophical  upraising  of 
the  index-finger,  putting  her  specs  up  on  her  head,  "and 
it's  no  use  to  be  particular  about  the  portion  which  Prov- 
idence sends  us  ;  for,  however  much  we  may  say  we  'd 
rather  have  this  and  we  'd  rather  have  that,  we  can't 
any  of  us  have  the  druthers  that  we  want.  It  has  been 
said  that  doubtful  things  is  very  uncertain,  and  that  we 
can't  tell  who  's  to  be  mayor  till  after  election  ;  and  that 
reminds  me  to  say  that  them  that  buys  the  most  of  cheap 
goods  has  to  pay  the  most  for  'em,  and  heaven  knows 
when  the  costiveness  of  the  times  will  be  any  better." 
She  ran  down  here,  like  an  eight-day  clock,  and  those 
who  heard  her  wondered  at  the  wisdom  of  her  remarks, 
which,  though  they  could  n't  make  out  what  it  all  meant, 
glistened  in  the  light  of  affectionate  partiality,  like  a 
piece  of  glass  beneath  the  rays  of  the  moon. 


EMBLEMATIC. 

WHILE  in  my  wanderings,  lately,  I  descried, 

Close  by  an  ancient  hut  dilapidated, 
An  apple-tree  in  guise  of  blooming  pride, 

Scarcely  in  prouder  precincts  to  be  mated. 
Its  graceful  branches  o'er  the  old  hut  threw 

An  air  of  bloom  that  seemed  rejuvenating ; 
I  quite  forgot  the  hovel  was  not  new, 

Among  the  odors  that  were  round  it  waiting. 
And  here  methought  an  emblem  I  had  found 

Of  age  with  brightest  virtues  round  it  resting  ; 
Though  life's  dark  night  steals  on  to  fold  it  round, 

The  bloom  of  cheerfulness  is  still  investing 
The  crazy  fabric,  bowed  by  Time'?  rude  storms, 
And  waves  above  it  in  divinest  forms. 


A  NIGHT  OF  IT. 

WE  were  out  in  the  country  —  Jarvis  and  I  —  on  a 
little  bit  of  a  "  tower,"  as  the  landlord  of  Hardscrabble 
"  guessed,"  as  we  stopped  there  for  the  night.  Hard- 
scrabble  is  a  queer  little  place,  away  up  in  New  Hamp- 
shire. It  is  so  far  away  from  railroads  and  the  bigger 
sort  of  civilization,  that  the  wonder  is,  among  those  who 
rorget  that  it  was  built  up  before  the  railroads,  how  it 
came  there.  But  it  is  on  what  was  once  the  great  stage- 
road  to  the  shire  town,  and  in  old  times  the  "  tavern  "  — 
there  were  taverns  in  those  days — was  a  bustling  place, 
and  abounded  with  stable-boys  and  loafers,  and  men 
more  respectable,  who  dropped  in,  upon  the  arrival  of 
the  stages,  to  get  the  last  news  from  Boston,  then  some 
days  old,  but  still  new.  Then  the  great  pine-knot-lighted 
bar-room  was  hung  all  around  with  stage-drivers'  great 
coats,  with  more  capes  than  a  continent,  and  formidable 
whips,  with  lashes  long  enough  to  tickle  the  ears  of  the 
lagging  leaders  of  the  team.  The  walls,  too,  were  all 
hung  with  advertisements  of  horses,  and  "  vendues,"  and 
cattle-fairs,  and  up  by  the  ceiling  hung  rows  of  "  Canada 
crooknecks  "  to  "  keep  "  in  the  mild  atmosphere.  The 
bar  meant  something  then ;  and  the  decanters,  with 
lemons  dotted  in  between,  filled  with  Santa  Cruz,  and 
Jamaica,  and  Old  Medford,  and  other  fluids,  furnished 
the  essential  oil  that  lubricated  the  tongues  of  travel- 
lers to  a  degree  that  rendered  the  cold  nights  of  winter 
perfectly  jolly  with  social  hilarity,  and  made  the  name 


A  NIGHT   OF  IT.  361 

of  stranger  an  entire  misnomer.  Then,  broad-shouldered 
and  thick-booted  men  sat  before  the  big  fireplace,  their 
ruddy  faces  glowing  in  the  light,  and  their  tongues  jubi- 
lant with  joke  or  song,  or  grave  with  the  weightier  mat- 
ters of  court-business  or  of  umpireship,  and  wise  with 
speculations  about  crops,  or  the  weight  of  pork  or  cat- 
tle. Anon  some  new  one  came  in  from  the  cold  with  a 
remark  that  it  was  "  master  cold  out,"  when  the  current 
of  conversation  changed  a  little  for  reminiscences  of 
some  "  cold  Friday,"  away  back  years  before,  when  the 
oldest  inhabitant  froze  his  ears  as  he  went  a-courting. 
All  this  while  the  logs  in  the  big  fireplace  sent  a  cheer- 
ful  blaze  up  the  chimney,  and  the  handles  of  one  or  two 
iron  loggerheads  were  seen  projecting  from  the  flame, 
denoting  that  flip  could  be  had  for  the  asking,  — a  fluid 
which  men  of  the  ancient  regime  indulged  in, — and  the 
landlord,  up  to  the  full  standard  of  the  host  in  good 
nature  and  inches,  leaned  over  his  bar-room  door,  be- 
nevolently contemplating  the  scene,  ready  to  answer 
summonses,  then  legal,  for  the  commodities  within  Bis 
bar,  to  welcome  new  comers,  or  to  book  the  names  of 
passengers  by  the  morning  stage.  Then,  there  was  the 
"  sitting-room,"  as  it  was  called,  with  its  sanded  floor, 
where  the  lady-guests  in  unsocial  frigidity  awaited  the 
return  of  their  male  companions,  who  had  a  long  story 
to  tell,  on  their  return,  about  the  difficulty  there  was 
in  "  these  country  taverns  "  about  getting  things  com- 
fortable. 

Such  was  the  old  Hardscrabble  tavern,  as  I  remember 
it,  with  its  queer  picture  of  a  face,  surrounded  by  rays 
of  best  chrome-yellow,  called  the  Sun,  which  swung  in 
chains  out  in  front  of  the  house,  and  creaked  in  disma] 
discontent  in  the  wintry  wind ;  and  such  was  not  the  old 
Sun  tavern,  as  I  saw  it  on  my  return  to  it,  last  winter, 
81 


362  A  NIGHT   OP  IT. 

after  an  absence  of  twenty-five  years.  Long  before,  its 
glory  had  departed,  and  so  had  the  former  landlord. 

We  were  out  at  the  close  of  one  of  the  very  coldest 
of  cold  days,  going  towards  Hardscrabble,  in  an  open 
sleigh.  It  had  never  seemed  in  such  an  impracticable 
place  before.  The  scene,  as  we  approached  the  town, 
with  which  I  had  formerly  been  very  familiar,  was  now 
all  new  to  me  ;  for  the  bushes  that  I  had  left  had 
grown  up  to  be  trees,  and  a  small  brook,  that  had  for- 
merly crossed  the  road,  had  been  dammed  in  an  effort 
to  save  the  place  by  building  a  little  one-horse  saw-mill, 
which  made  a  lake  that  we  crossed  on  the  ice.  All 
seemed  odd  enough  ;  and  Jarvis,  as  far  as  he  ventured 
to  speak,  said  that  he  fully  appreciated,  now,  the  remark 
of  the  old  lady  who  wondered  how  any  one  could  live 
so  far  off.  It  was  too  cold  to  question  the  relevancy 
of  the  remark. 

Says  I,  Jarvis,  miboy,  there  's  comfort  awaiting  us.  I 
do  remember  me  a  country  tavern,  and  hereabouts  it 
was;  and,  if  we  don't  find  there  roaring  cheer,  and  good 
entertainment  for  man  and  beast,  —  that  is,  you  and  I,  — 
set  me  down  as  an  arrant  cheat  and  deceiver.  He  settled 
back  into  his  rigidity  with  some  remark,  the  only  part  of 
which  that  I  could  distinguish  was,  "  suthin  hot !  "  It 
was  only  about  ten  o'clock ;  but,  early  as  it  was,  every 
sign  of  life  had  ceased  about  the  place.  Not  a  soul  was 
stirring,  not  a  light  beamed  from  a  window,  and  the 
dead  solitude  of  the  north-pole  could  be  scarcely  more 
drear  than  the  utter  deadness  that  just  then  rested 
ipon  Hardscrabble.  "We  drove  on  towards  the  "tav- 
ern," whose  windows,  illuminated  with  the  old  watch- 
fire,  seemed  to  the  traveller  a  veritable  smile  of  wel- 
come, and  a  promise  of  good  cheer ;  but  no  such 
welcome  met  us — "darkness  there, and  nothing  more!" 


A  NIGHT   OP  IT.  363 

I  could  not  be  mistaken  in  the  house ;  for  there  was  the 
old  sign-post,  with  the  crane  projecting,  that  had  once 
sustained  the  Sun,  now  set  forever. 

I  knew  that  Jarvis  was  alive,  because  I  had  heard  him 
a  few  moments  before  uncork  a  little  flask  that  he  car- 
ried, containing  some  aromatic  drops,  but  I  did  not 
know  how  long  he  would  hold  out ;  so,  emergency  war- 
ranting, I  got  out  of  the  sleigh,  went  to  the  door,  and 
gave  a  volley  of  raps  with  the  handle  of  my  whip,  such 
as  a  man  might  be  supposed  to  make  who  was  in  a 
severe  strait,  but  who  had  wherewithal  to  back  his 
demand.  No  response  to  the  sound  came,  when  I 
repeated  the  summons,  and  this  time  with  better  suc- 
cess ;  for  a  window  over  the  door  opened,  a  head  looked 
cautiously  out,  and  a  voice,  tremulous  with  fear  or  cold, 
demanded, 

"  What  the  plague 's  the  matter? — what  d'ye  want?" 

"  Want  to  come  in,"  said  I.  "  Here  are  two  travel- 
lers, hungry  and  cold,  —  one  of  them  now  in  an  insensi- 
ble condition  in  the  sleigh,  yonder,  —  and  we  want  you 
to  open  your  doors  to  them,  and  take  them  in,  as  you, 
undoubtedly,  are  disposed  to  do." 

"  0,  shet  up  !  "  said  the  voice,  which  I  supposed  was 
addressed  to  me  ;  but,  from  its  subdued  tone,  I  after- 
wards concluded  that  it  was  intended  as  a  reply  to  some 
one  in  the  house,  which  proved  to  be  the  fact,  as  I 
heard  a  female  voice,  in  a  moment,  say, 

"  S'pos'in'  't  should  be  thieves  ?  " 

"  Say ! "  said  the  voice  from  the  window,  "  who  are 
ye,  any  way  ?  " 

"  Two  belated  travellers,"  I  replied,  "  from  Boston, 
the  metropolis  of  Massachusetts,  who  have  business  in 
the  town  of  Hardscrabble,  where  they  will  remain  to- 


364  A  NIGHT  OF  IT. 

morrow,  and  are  desirous  of  resting  and  refreshing 
themselves  beneath  your  roof." 

"  Wai,  I  '11  be  down  in  a  minnit.  Thunderin'  cold, 
is  n't  it  ?  " 

He  disappeared  from  the  window,  and,  from  the 
sounds  that  I  heard,  I  judged  there  had  arisen  an 
disagreeable  domestic  discussion  concerning  the  pro- 
priety of  letting  us  in,  which  created  a  little  unpleasant 
reflection  as  to  what  could  be  done  in  such  a  contin- 
gency as  being  shut  out,  relieved,  however,  by  the  clat- 
tering of  feet  upon  the  floor  inside,  the  withdrawal  of  a 
bolt,  and  the  swinging  of  the  door  upon  its  hinges, 
disclosing  a  tall,  cadaverous-looking  man,  half-dressed, 
holding  a  tallow  candle  in  his  hand,  and  a  woman,  as 
thick  as  she  was  short,  at  his  elbow.  Says  I,  "  Friends, 
I  am  very  sorry  to  disturb  you ;  but  we-  are  in  distress. 
It  is  thunderin'  cold,  as  you  very  truly  remarked,  just 
now,  and  I  have  a  friend  there  under  that  pile  of 
buffalo-robes  who  may  even  now  be  frozen  as  stiff  as 
Mount  Washington." 

The  buffalo-robes,  however,  collapsed,  and  Jarvis 
stepped  from  the  vehicle.  He  walked  towards  the 
house,  and  entered  with  me,  after  I  had  embraced  him 
and  congratulated  him  on  his  escape  from  petrifaction. 

"  Is  n't  this  a  tavern  ?  "  I  asked. 

4<  Yas,  I  s'pose  some  'd  call  it  so  ;  we  call  it  the  Pa- 
vilion Hotel." 

"  The you  do  ! "  said  Jarvis,  thawing  out  with  a 

warmth  of  expression,  that  the  landlord,  had  he  not 
been  a  little  oblivious  just  then,  must  have  heard. 

"  Much  business  here  ?  "  I  further  asked. 

"  Wai,"  said  he,  "  in  summer  it 's  tip-top  —  lots  of 
people  come  here  to  get  the  prospective  scenery  — 


A  NIGHT  OP  IT.  365 

but  'n  winter  't  an't  much.  It 's  a  mighty  pretty  place 
when  the  trees  is  out." 

"  Please  hurry  things  up,  now,  and  give  us  something 
comfortable  soon,  there  's  a  good  fellow,"  I  broke  in. 
— "  Ah,  madam,"  said  I,  turning  to  the  lady,  who  looked 
as  cool  as  the  season,  "  it  is  rare  that  one  meets  with  so 
happy  a  face.  The  twenty-five  years  of  your  life  must 
have  been  a  season  of  continued  cheerfulness."  (She 
looked  forty,  to  say  the  least.)  "  Blessing  and  blest,  — 
that 's  the  way.  A  cup  of  tea,  some  hot  toast,  and  your 
pleasant  company,  will  make  our  adventure  very  happy." 
She  went  off  smiling  in  reality,  while  the  husband  — 
Mottle  was  his  name  —  continued  dismally  trying  to 
infuse  heat  into  a  parlor  wood-stove,  —  an  innovation 
on  the  old  fireplace. 

I  looked  round  the  room,  and  recognized  many 
things  as  they  had  once  existed.  We  were  really  in  the 
old  bar-room.  What  a  flood  of  ghostly  fancies  ran 
through  my  brain !  I  seemed  surrounded  by  departed 
spirits,  so  full  the  scene  was  of  remembrances.  But  the 
decanters  had  all  fled,  the  whips  and  great  coats  had  all 

vanished,  the  fireplace  had  been  bricked  up,  and 

"  Where  is  the  old  landlord  ?  "  I  asked,  as  the  memory 
of  him  obtruded  itself  at  this  point  in  marked  contrast 
with  the  cadaverous  man  on  his  knees,  blowing  away  at 
the  old  stove. 

"  Gone  to  Kansis,"  said  he,  betwixt  the  puffs ;  "  took 
to  drink  arter  the  custom  gin  aout,  and  sold  the  con- 
sarn." 

The  fire  was  a  success ;  it  sent  out  a  glowing  heat, 

the  blaze  roared    up  the  funnel,  the   astonished  iron 

cracked  and  snapped  as  it  expanded,  and  Jarvis  and  I 

sat  before  the  warm  flame  in  magnificent  content,  all 

31* 


366  A  NIGHT  OP  IT. 

the  while  hearing  the  sound  of  preparation  going  on  in 
the  room  beyond,  a  promise  that  did  n't  disappoint  us. 

"  Landlord/'  said  I,  with  a  wink,  "  where  are  the 
little  fellows  that  once  stood  along  the  shelves  yonder, 
with  labels  around  their  necks  ?  Any  of  'em  left  ?  " 

"  Nary  one,"  said  he  ;  "  this  is  a  temp'rance  house. 
You  see  Hardscrabble  is  nat'rally  an  onlicensed  place, 
and  so  we  gin  it  up.  Been  here  before,  I  guess  ?  " 

I  assured  him  I  had. 

"  Been  a  mighty  cold  day,"  he  said ;  "  Jo  Chesman 
says  't  is  the  coldest  day  we  've  had  sence  the  cold 
Friday,  forty  year  ago  ;  but  I  don't  know,  for  that  was 
before  I  moved  into  the  caounty.  But  I  must  go  aout 
'n  see  to  your  horse." 

A  supper  was  soon  set  before  us,  more  extensive  as 
regarded  quantity  and  quality  than  variety.  It  was 
good  substantial  fare,  such  as  one  meets  with  all 
through  our  country  towns  ;  and  the  landlady  waited 
upon  us  with  delightful  urbanity  of  manner,  sitting  at 
the  table  and  pouring  out  our  tea  for  us  in  the  most 
social  way. 

"  Are  you  related  to  Squire  Mooney,  of  Green- 
borough  ? "  I  asked  the  landlady  ;  "  the  one  that  in- 
vented the  India-rubber  knitting-needles,  and  made  an 
immense  fortune  out  of  them  ?  " 

She  assured  me  that  she  was  not. 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  said  I,  "  I  never  saw  such  a  like- 
ness !  Did  you,  Jarvis  ?  " 

Jarvis  averred  that  if  she  were  to  be  dressed  like 
the  'Squire  he  shouldn't  know  them  apart,  except  from 
the  superior  good  looks  of  the  lady  ;  and  this  remark 
finished  what  was  wanting  to  counteract  the  effect  of 
rising  from  a  warm  bed  to  perform  a  disagreeable  duty. 


A   NIGHT  OP  IT.  367 

She  was  all  good  humor,  of  which  we  had  many  proofs 
while  we  remained  in  the  house. 

We  sat  down  before  the  fire  again  after  supper,  and 
the  landlord  told  us  stories  about  the  old  house  and  the 
old  people  of  the  neighborhood,  while  Jarvis  took  out 
his  cigar-case,  and  smoked  in  drowsy  indifference  to 
what  we  were  saying.  It  was  getting  near  midnight, 
when  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  that  started  us 
ah1  to  our  feet.  It  was  not  very  loud,  but  it  was 
peculiar,  —  a  sort  of  half  emphatic  and  half  timorous 
affair, —  and  we  all  three  proceeded  to  the  door.  I  was 
curious  to  see  the  intruder,  as  I  felt  he  was ;  and,  upon 
opening,  the  most  singular  object  that  I  had  ever  seen 
presented  himself.  He  was  an  oldish  sort  of  a  man, 
short  and  thick-set,  with  a  dress  that,  for  incongruity, 
would  compare  favorably  with  that  of  Madge  Wildfire. 
An  old  fur  cap  was  on  his  head,  that  fitted  closely  to  it, 
and  it  was  tied  down  in  some  inexplicable  way  below 
the  chin.  He  was  belted  round  the  waist,  like  a  brig- 
and, and  carried  in  his  hand  a  staff,  of  formidable 
dimensions,  that  had,  apparently,  been  wrenched  from 
a  tree. 

"  Can  I  come  in  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  hollow  voice.  Per- 
mission being  granted,  he  came  in  before  the  fire.  I 
am  a  man  of  some  considerable  nerve,  have  been  in 
scenes  where  pluck  was  required  to  carry  a  matter 
through,  have  faced  men  that  I  would  not  care  to  see 
again ;  but  the  first  glance  at  that  face,  as  it  appeared 
before  the  blaze  of  the  fire,  was  so  revolting  that  I  felt 
my  courage  giving  way.  The  eyes  were  sunk  in  the 
head,  the  features  were  shrivelled  and  thin,  and  around 
the  mouth  a  smile  was  constantly  playing  that  appeared 
fiendish  to  my  shocked  fancy.  But,  I  said  to  myself, 
'T  is  only  a  man ;  you  are  not  going  to  fear  clay  that  is, 


368  A  NIGHT  OP  IT. 

perhaps,  not  much  more  ugly  than  yourself  in  the  eyes 
of  superior  perfection  !  So  I  sat  still  and  watched  him. 

He  took  a  seat  in  front  of  the  fire,  into  which  he 
gazed  with  an  abstracted  air.  The  muscles  of  his  face 
seemed  entirely  beyond  his  control,  and  the  fiendish 
laugh  assumed  another  phase.  I  could  not  make  him 
out,  as  he  sat  there,  his  face  twisting  into  all  manner  of 
most  villanous  contortions.  "Whether  he  was  insane,  or 
idiotic,  or  diseased,  I  could  not  divine.  Jarvis  took  the 
seat  he  had  occupied,  which  was  very  near  the  strange 
comer,  and  had  resumed  his  cigar,  when,  looking  round 
into  the  stranger's  face,  he  became  aware  of  the  fear- 
ful seeming  of  the  new  guest.  His  lips  refused  to  draw 
at  the  cigar,  which  dropped  from  between  his  teeth ;  his 
hand  trembled,  which  reached  for  his  handkerchief;  his 
eyes  dilated,  and  terror  took  complete  possession.  The 
man  —  if  it  was  a  man  —  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  not 
one  word  being  spoken,  when,  with  a  half-start,  he  felt 
in  his  pocket  and  took  out  a  very  large  and  savage 
knife,  which  he  opened  with  a  jerk.  Poor  Jarvis  was 
apparently  powerless  from  terror.  The  man's  fingers 
clutched  convulsively  about  the  knife,  until  he  held  it 
in  a  position  suited  to  his  intent,  when  he  raised  his 
arm,  leaned  a  little  forward,  and 

Jarvis  started  to  his  feet,  with  a  yell  that  might  have 
been  heard  a  mile,  swinging  his  chair  back  to  the  wall, 
and  placing  himself  on  it,  in  entire  prostration. 

The  man  reached  forward,  and,  taking  a  splinter  of 
wood  from  the  floor,  proceeded  to  whittle. 

The  landlord  and  myself  rushed  to  Jarvis. 

"  Don't  be  skeered,"  whispered  mine  host ;  "  he  won't 
hurt  ye.  He 's  only  old  Bob  Haize,  who  's  been  half 
dead  more  'n  a  hundred  times  of  delirium  trimmius,  and 


THE   PEEACHEB   AND   THE  CHILDREN.  369 

now  it  Js  settled  into  his  sistim.     There  's  nothing  har- 
monious about  him." 

Jarvis  swore  stoutly  that  he  was  n't  afraid,  and  quar- 
relled with  me  for  saying  that  he  was ;  but  the  landlord 
will  support  what  I  say.  We  went  to  bed  about  one 
o'clock,  and  a  better  bed  I  never  slept  in  than  that  in 
the  Pavilion  Hotel  at  Hardscrabble,  where  we  had  the 
night  of  it. 


THE   PREACHEE   AND    THE    CHILDREN. 

HE  spake  unto  the  little  ones 

In  childhood's  simplest,  tenderest  word, 
While  warm  love  trembled  in  his  tones, 

And  eyes  were  moist  and  hearts  were  stirred. 
The  quivering  lip  and  eager  glance 

Bespoke  the  young  soul's  answering  thrill ; 
Yet  't  was  of  simple  utterance, 

As  gentle  as  a  summer  rill. 

And  older  ears,  too,  drank  the  sound, 

And  loved  the  music  of  its  strain, 
As  thirsty  plants  and  thirsty  ground 

Hark  to  the  drip  of  falling  rain  ! 
It  was  as  dew  to  sturdy  trees, 

That  wakes  their  half-unconscious  powers. 
The  note  of  distant  melodies, 

That  breaks  the  gloom  of  dreary  hours. 

The  mightiest  words  that  men  can  speak 

May  not  be  those  that  touch  the  heart, 
May  never  pale  the  ruddy  cheek, 

Or  cause  the  willing  tear  to  start. 
The  fierce  tornado's  bitter  blast 

Or  thunder's  crash  assail  in  vain  ; 
The  still  small  voice  sweeps  gently  past, 

And  God,  contest,  is  in  the  strain. 
24 


370  OUT  WEST.  —  CONSCIENCE. 


OUT    WEST. 

"  ANN  ARBOR  ! "  cried  the  conductor,  looking  in  at 
the  door.  Mrs.  Partington  looked  round,  and,  seeing 
nobody  move,  she  resumed  her  knitting.  "Ann  Arbor," 
said  another  voice,  at  the  door  of  the  rear  end  of  the 
car.  "  Well,  I  declare,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  I  hope  he 
will  find  her.  —  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,"  said  she,  reaching 
over  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  speaking  to  a  gentleman 
with  a  plush  cap  on,  and  a  ticket  sticking  in  the  front 
of  it,  "  who  Miss  Ann  Arbor  is  ?  "  — "  Nein  ferstan," 
replied  he.  —  "Well,"  she  continued,  "I  didn't  mean 
nothing  contemptible,  and  it  would  n't  have  cost  you 
anything  to  have  given  a  civil  answer."  The  man 
looked  persistently  out  of  the  window,  and  the  cars 
moved  on,  Mrs.  Partington  consoling  herself  with  the 
reflection  that  Ann  Arbor  must  be  in  the  other  car. 


CONSCIENCE. 

SHARPEB  than  whip  of  scorpions  is  the  sting, 

As  conscience  turns  its  searching  eyes  •within, 
Where  broods  the  spirit  with  its  sullied  wing, 

Each  pinion  drooping  in  the  damps  of  sin. 
The  face  may  bear  the  evidence  of  joys, 

And  mirth  ring  out  in  the  exultant  laugh,  — 
The  silent  monitor  the  cheat  destroys, 

The  shout  is  hollow  as  an  epitaph  ! 
Outlooking  through  the  gloom,  the  conscious  soul 

Shudders  in  silence  with  its  secret  pain, 
Till  life  and  its  allurements  gain  control, 

And  dulled,  not  cured,  it  onward  moves  again,  • 
A  woodlawn  garniture  of  joy  concealing 
Beneath  its  bloom  the  graves  of  joyous  feeling. 


BABIES.  371 

BABIES. 

BABIES,  we  believe,  have  never  been  considered  as 
being  in  any  way  connected  with  the  fine  arts,  and  per- 
haps "judicious  criticism"  might  have  little  benefit 
in  improving,  in  the  estimation  of  the  possessors, 
the  cherubs  chiselled  by  the  hand  of  nature.  The 
•  style  of  babies  is  illimitable,  and  each  family  that  is  the 
delighted  possessor  of  one  deems,  of  course,  its  own 
the  most  in  accordance  with  classic  taste.  Therefore 
it  is  impossible  to  fix  any  standard,  beyond  mere  opin- 
ion, by  which  to  establish  the  fact  of  beauty  in  a  baby; 
and  we  are  obliged  to  leave  it  with  the  possessor  to 
fix  the  degree,  and  say  whether  pug-nosed  or  aquiline- 
nosed,  big-eyed  or  little-eyed,  dumpy  babies,  or  more 
extended  babies,  are  most  worthy  of  the  claim  to  beauty. 
And  this  brings  out  the  fact  that  the  Great  Artist  who 
made  the  work  gives  also  the  faculty  of  appreciating 
the  excellence  of  each  particular  production  to  the  ones 
most  interested.  There  is  great  wisdom  in  this ;  for,  if 
tho  same  general  idea  of  beauty  prevailed,  nobody's 
baby  would  be  safe.  There  would  be  endless  envying, 
and  strife,  and  bickering,  and  more  rivalry  to  obtain  the 
handsomest  baby  than  now  prevails  at  an  auction  to 
secure  some  choice  article  of  vertu.  [The  printer  will 
please  not  put  this  virtue,  as  that  is  an  article  which  is 
rarely  sought  with  such  avidity.]  Now  all  are  secure, 
and  each  one  is  happy  in  the  possession  of  the  hand- 
somest. There  is  not  a  more  interesting  study  in  the 
world  than  a  baby  as  a  work  of  art — aside  from  its 
humanity,  the  grandeur  of  its  destiny,  and  all  that. 
The  tiny  hand,  so  delicately  modelled,  is  a  lesson  of 
beauty.  The  transparent  nails,  the  dimpled  knuckles, 
the  delicate  tracery  of  the  palm-lines,  all  are  so  admir- 


372  AGRICULTURAL. 

ably  executed,  that  it  seems  a  pity  to  jnar  so  sweet  & 
work  by  manly  growth.  Some  one  has  said  that  infants 
are  always  graceful  in  their  motions.  This  is  a  mechan 
ical  view  of  the  baby,  but  it  is  true.  From  rolling  over 
on  the  carpet  to  pulling  Bub's  hair  or  papa's  whiskers, 
the  baby's  motions  are  Beautiful.  The  chiselled  marble 
never  can  attain  the  exquisite  finish  of  the  rounded 
cheek,  the  delicate  eyelash,  the  beautiful  mouth,  the 
funny  nose,  the  dimpled  chin.  Ask  the  happy  mother 
or  the  proud  father  if  they  ever  saw  any  one  half  as 
beautiful  as  their  own  little  laughing,  crowing,  cooing, 
drooling,  rollicking,  rolling,  tumbling,  fretting  little  doll 
of  a  baby,  that  sits  there  on  the  floor,  or  wherever  it 
may  be,  sucking  its  little  fist,  and  the  answer  will  be  a 
most  decided  negative. 


AGRICULTURAL. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON  was  out,  one  morning,  scratching 
about  the  roots  like  a  hen  or  a  lexicographer,  with  a 
black  bonnet  on  her  head,  when  her  neighbor,  Mr. 
"Vintner,  who  deals  largely  in  wines,  reached  his  long 
neck  over  the  gate.  "  Good  crop  of  grapes,  ma'am  ?  " 
said  he. — "  'Twill  be  pretty  burdensome,"  she  replied, 
looking  up  to  where  the  seven  bunches  hung  which 
had  been  left  after  Ike  made  himself  sick  by  eating  the 
eighth  green. — "Any  ordium  upon  the  vine?"  he  asked. 
—  "I  don't  know  as  regards  the  odium  upon  my  vine," 
replied  she,  "  but  I  am  not  going  to  make  any  wine 
that  will  be  likely  to  have  the  odium  that  some  wine 
has  that  is  sold  for  good,  that  never  saw  a  grape  in  its 
life."  She  wondered  why  he  turned  away  so  suddenly, 
but  supposed  he  had  an  errand  round  the  corner.  The 
black  bonnet  hovered  again  over  the  yellow  flowers,  as 


MRS.   PARTINGTON  AND   PATENT  MEDICINES.          373 

a  maternal  biddy  might  over  a  flock  of  young  ducks, 
abd  the  old  case-knife  was  plied  vigorously  among  the 
roots.  "  Ah,  there  is  health  in  it,"  said  Mrs.  Parting- 
ton,  "  depend  upon  it ;  for  since  I  've  been  soiling  I  've 
moved  a  structure  from  my  chest,  and  feel  like  some- 
body else."  Bless  her,  what  an  example  hers  is  to 
follow  1 


MRS.  PARTINGTON  AND  PATENT  MEDICINES. 

"  1  'M  shore's  he  's  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Partington, 
as  she  took  out  of  its  wrapper  a  box  of  "  Hallelujah 
Pills,"  accompanied  with  the  request  that  she  should 
take  them  for  the  sake  of  old  friendship  —  the  agent 
being  an  early  acquaintance  of  hers.  "  He  's  very  kind, 
but  taking  them  is  another  thing,  though  they  are  good 
for  all  the  ails  that  are  impertinent  to  the  flesh,  double 
X  inclusible.  0,  what  malefactors  these  medicine  men 
are  to  the  human  family,  to  be  sure !  I  remember  a 
pictorial  expectant  once  that  brought  up  a  whole  family 
of  children,  and  entirely  cured  a  gentleman  who  had 
been  troubled  for  a  great  while  with  a  periodical  depot. 
Depend  upon  it,  sir,"  continued  she,  addressing  old 
Roger,  "  there  's  so  much  virtue  in  'em  that  everybody 
will  be  made  virtuous,  and  everybody  be  made  over 
again  new,  and  there  '11  be  no  excuse  for  dying  at  all." 
The  old  lady  put  the  box  of  pills  up  on  the  top  shelf, 
out  of  Ike's  way,  lest  he  should  take  them  by  mistake,! 
as  he  often  did  the  preserved  damsons.  "They're 
doubtless  purgatory,"  said  she,  getting  down  out  of  the 
chair  in  which  she  had  stood. — "  Worse  than  that,  I  dare 
say,"  said  Roger,  buttoning  up  his  coat ;  "  for  I  smelt 
sulphur  in  them."  He  went  out,  and  she  wondered 
what  he  meant. 

82 


374  SONG   OF   CHELSEA  FERET. 

SONG    OF    CHELSEA    FERRY. 

WHICH  WILL    ANSWER   FOB    ANT    LOCALITY   WHERE  A   FERRY    IS    EMPLOYE* 

HEAR  our  Song  of  Chelsea  Ferry  — 

Of  its  bustle,  mirth,  and  rattle, 
Where  the  social  and  the  merry 

Ever  actively  are  shown  ; 
Where  the  charm  of  friendship's  prattle 

Gives  the  heart  a  faith  more  cheery, 
That  in  life's  perplexing  battle 

It  would  scarce  have  known  ! 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Hark  the  chorus  :  Ding,  dong,  bell  1 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Hear  the  cheerful  Ferry  Bell ! 

Sparkling  bright  is  Chelsea  Ferry, 

With  its  blue  and  flashing  water, 
With  its  voices  rich  and  merry, 

In  the  morning  blush  of  day  ; 
When  around,  on  every  quarter, 

Foamy  waves  in  tumult  hurry, 
And  the  sun,  an  ardent  sporter, 

Dances  'mid  the  spray. 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Join  the  chorus  :  Ding,  dong,  bell . 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Hear  the  warning  Ferry  Bell  ! 

Calm  and  fair  is  Chelsea  Ferry, 

When  the  warm  sun,  sinking  slowly, 
Backward  smiles  with  radiance  cheery 

On  the  toilers  homeward  bound  ; 
When  the  moon,  with  aspect  holy, 

Drives  the  shadows  dark  and  dreary, 
By  her  splendors  melancholy 

Lighting  all  around. 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Join  the  chorus  :  Ding,  dong,  bell  I 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Hear  the  evening  Ferry  Bell ! 


MR.    BLIFKINS'   BABY.  375 

Wider  waves  than  Chelsea  Ferry 

Men  may  sail  to  grander  places, 
Where  the  tropic's  ruddy  berry 

Gleams  the  glossy  foliage  through  ; 
But  we  own  no  higher  graces 

Than  where  heart  and  tongue  are  merrj 
Where  the  "  old  familiar  faces  " 

Beam  with  aspect  true. 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Join  the  chorus  :  Ding,  dong,  bell ! 
Chelsea  Ferry  !     Chelsea  Ferry  ! 

Hear  the  jolly  Ferry  Bell ! 


MR.     BLIFKINS'     BABY. 

THAT  first  baby  was  a  great  institution.  As  soon  as 
ne  came  into  this  "  breathing  world,"  he  took  command 
in  our  house.  Everything  was  subservient  to  him. 
The  baby  was  the  balance-wheel  that  regulated  every- 
thing. He  regulated  the  temperature,  he  regulated  the 
food,  he  regulated  the  servants,  he  regulated  me.  For 
the  first  six  months  of  that  precious  existence,  he  had 
me  up,  on  an  average,  six  times  a  night.  "  Mr.  Blifkins," 
says  my  wife,  "  bring  that  light  here,  do  ;  the  baby 
looks  strangely ;  I  'in  so  afraid  it  will  have  a  fit ! "  Of 
course  the  lamp  was  brought,  and  of  course  the  baby 
lay  sucking  his  fist  like  a  little  white  bear,  as  he  was. 
"  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  "  I  think  I  feel  a  draught 
of  air ;  I  wish  you  would  get  up  and  see  if  the  window 
is  not  open  a  little,  because  baby  might  get  sick." 
Nothing  was  the  matter  with  the  window,  as  I  knew 
very  well.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  says  my  wife,  just  as  I  was 
going  to  sleep  again,  "  that  lamp,  as  you  have  placed 
it,  shines  directly  in  baby's  eyes,  —  strange  that  you 
have  no  more  consideration ! "  I  arranged  the  light  and 
went  to  bed  again.  Just  as  I  was  dropping  to  sleep 


376  MR.   BLIFKINS'   BABY. 

again,  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  "  did  you  think  to 
buy  that  broma  to-day  for  the  baby?"  —  "My  dear," 
said  I,  "  will  you  do  me  the  injustice  to  believe  that  I 
could  overlook  a  matter  so  essential  to  the  comfort  of 
that  inestimable  child?"  She  apologized  very  hand- 
somely, but  made  her  anxiety  the  scape-goat.  I  forgave 
her,  and,  without  saying  a  word  more  to  her,  I  addressed 
myself  to  sleep.  "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  shaking 
me,  "  you  must  not  snore  so  ;  you  will  wake  the  baby." 
—  "Jest  so — jest  so,"  said  I,  half  asleep,  thinking  I 
was  Solon  Shingle. — "  Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife,  "  will 
you  get  up  and  hand  me  the  warm  gruel  from  the  nurse- 
lamp  for  baby  ?  —  The  dear  child !  if  it  was  n't  for  his 
mother,  I  don't  know  what  he  would  do.  How  can  you 
sleep  so,  Mr.  Blifkins?"  —  "I  suspect,  my  dear,"  said 
I,  "  that  it  is  because  I  am  tired."  —  "  0,  it 's  very  well 
for  you  men  to  talk  about  being  tired,"  said  my  wife ; 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  'd  say  if  you  had  to  toil  and 
drudge  like  a  poor  woman  with  a  baby."  I  tried  to 
soothe  her  by  telling  her  she  had  no  patience  at  all,  and 
got  up  for  the  posset.  Having  aided  in  answering  the 
baby's  requirements,  I  stepped  into  bed  again,  with  the 
hope  of  sleeping.  "Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  my  wife. — I 
made  no  answer. — "Mr.  Blifkins,"  said  she,  in  a  louder 
key. — I  said  nothing.  —  "0  dear!  "  said  that  estimable 
woman,  in  great  apparent  anguish,  "how  can  a  man 
who  has  arrived  at  the  honor  of  a  live  baby  of  his  own 
sleep,  when  he  don't  know  that  the  dear  creature  will 
live  till  morning?"  I  remained  silent,  and,  after  a 
while,  deeming  that  Mrs.  Blifkins  had  gone  to  sleep,  I 
stretched  my  limbs  for  repose.  How  long  I  slept  I 
don't  know,  but  I  was  awakened  by  a  furious  jab  in  the 
forehead  by  some  sharp  instrument.  I  started  up,  and 
Mrs.  Blifkins  was  sitting  up  in  the  bed  adjusting  some 


PATIENCE.  377 

portion  of  the  baby's  dress.  She  had,  in  a  state  of  semi- 
somnolence,  mistaken  my  head  for  the  pillow,  which 
she  customarily  used  for  a  nocturnal  pincushion.  I 
protested  against  such  treatment  in  somewhat  round 
terms,  pointing  to  several  perforations  in  my  forehead. 
She  told  me  I  should  willingly  bear  such  trifling  things 
for  the  sake  of  the  baby.  I  insisted  upon  it  that  I  did  n't 
think  my  duty  as  a  parent  to  that  young  immortal 
required  the  surrender  of  my  forehead  for  a  pincushion. 
This  was  one  of  many  nights  passed  in  this  way.  The 
truth  was,  that  baby  was  what  every  other  man's  first 
baby  is,  an  autocrat,  absolute  and  unlimited.  Such  was 
the  story  of  Blifkins,  as  herelated  it.  It  is  but  a  little 
exaggerated  picture  of  almost  every  man's  experience. 


PATIENCE. 

PATIENCE  ! — great  virtue !  —  I  thy  praise  would  sing— - 

Sublimest  of  the  virtues  Heaven  sent — 
(I  once  admired  a  maid  named  Patience  King, 

But  she  is  not  the  Patience  herein  meant)  — 
Patience,  that,  catlike,  by  persistence  wins  ; 

Which  sees  the  corn  submitted  to  the  earth, 
And  waits  until  it 's  gathered  into  bins, 

Or  smokes  in  Johnny-cakes  upon  the  hearth  ; 
Patience,  that  brooks  a  note's  maturing  pace  ; 

Patience,  that  tracks  a  ship  across  the  deep  ; 
Patience,  that  weaves  the  complicated  lace  ; 

Patience,  that  sings  a  crying  child  to  sleep  ; 
Patience  —  grand  culmination  of  my"strains  — 
That,  when  allied  with  baize,  cures  rheumatiz  and  sprain*. 
82* 


IKE'S   COMPOSITIONS  IN   SCHOOL. 

IKE  is  well  advanced  in  his  class.  He  is,  in  some 
things,  beyond  the  teacher's  art,  and  could,  in  fact,  give 
that  functionary  some  lessons  in  arts  wherein  he  is  per- 
fect. Ike  dislikes  composition  where  a  theme  is  given 
out  to  be  written  upon  by  the  scholars,  and  his  credits 
are  not  very  great  for  his  efforts  in  that  direction  gen- 
erally; but  one  day  he  astonished  the  master  and 
every  one  by  an  elaborate  article  on  the  Horse.  He 
was  called  upon  to  read  it  aloud  to  the  scholars ;  and, 
getting  upon  the  platform,  he  made  a  bow,  and  began : 

THE  HORSE. 

THE  horse  is  a  quadruped,  with  four  legs  —  two  be- 
hind, and  two  before.  He  has  a  tail  that  grows  on  to 
the  hind  part  of  his  body,  that  nature  has  furnished  him, 
with  which  to  drive  the  flies  away.  His  head  is  situ- 
ated on  the  other  end,  opposite  his  tail,  and  is  used  prin 
cipally  to  fasten  a  bridle  to  to  drive  him  by,  and  to  put 
into  a  basket  to  eat  oats  with.  Horses  are  very  useful 
animals,  and  people  could  n't  get  along  very  well  with- 
out them  —  especially  truckmen  and  omnibus-drivers, 
who  don't  seem  to  be  half  grateful  enough  because 
they  've  got  'em.  They  are  very  convenient  animals  in 
the  country  in  vacation  time,  and  go  very  fast  over  the 
country  roads  when  boys  sticks  pins  into  'em,  a  specie 
of  cruelty  that  I  would  n't  encourage.  Horses  generally 
are  covered  with  red  hair,  though  some  are  white,  and 

(378) 


IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL.  379 

orn«rs  ire  gray  and  black.  Nobody  ever  saw  a  blue 
horse,  which  is  considered  very  strange  by  eminent 
naturals.  The  horse  is  quite  an  intelligent  animal,  and 
can  sleep  standing  up,  which  is  a  very  convenient  gift, 
especially  where  there  is  a  crowd  and  it  is  difficult  to 
get  a  chance  to  lay. 

There  is  a  great  variety  of  horses  —  fast  horses  and 
slow  horses,  clothes-horses,  horse-mackerel,  saw-horses, 
and  horse-flies,  horse-chestnuts,  and  horse-radish.  The 
clothes-horse  is  a  very  quiet  animal  to  have  round  a 
house,  and  is  never  known  to  kick,  though  very  apt  to 
raise  a  row  when  it  gets  capsized.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  the  saw-horse,  which  will  stand  without  tieing. 
Horse-flies  is  a  very  vicious  beast,  and  very  annoying 
in  the  summer,  when  a  fellow  is  in  swimming.  Horse- 
mackerel  I  don't  know  anything  about,  only  that  they 
swim  in  the  water,  and  are  a  specie  of  fish.  Horse- 
chestnuts  is  prime  to  pelt  Mickeys  with,  and  horse- 
radish is  a  mighty  smart  horse,  but  bad  to  have  stand- 
ing round  where  there 's  small  children. 

The  horse  is  found  in  all  countries,  principally  in 
lively-stables,  where  they  may  be  hired  to  run  by  the 
mile,  considered  by  them  as  can  get  money  a  great 
luxury,  especially  in  the  sleighing  season.  In  South 
America  they  grow  wild,  and  the  Indians  catch  them 
with  nooses  that  they  throw  over  the  horses'  heads, 
which  must  be  thought,  by  the  horses,  a  great  noosance. 

He  received  so  much  credit  for  this,  that  he  con- 
tinued his  efforts,  and  the  following  succeeded  : 

TOBACCO. 

THIS  is  a  great  article  of  commerce,  and  forms  one  of 
our  greatest  social  institutions.  It  enters  into  the  do 


380  IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL. 

mestic  circle,  and  drives  away  care ;  because  the  one 
who  smokes  in  the  domestic  circle  does  n't  care  a  snap 
who  likes  it  or  not.  It  comes  in  different  shapes  — -sil- 
ver-leaf, fine-cut,  cavendish,  and  nigger-head.  This  last 
has  its  name  from  the  negroes  in  Virginia,  who  get  it 
up  for  the  market.  Tobacco  was  first  introduced  into 
England  in  the  year  1600,  and  some  say  by  Sir  "Walter 
Raleigh ;  and  the  people  did  n't  object  to  being  intro- 
duced to  it,  though  King  James  wrote  something  about 
it,  intending  to  give  it  fits ;  but  it  became  in  every- 
body's mouth,  and  soon  more  "  old  soldiers  "  of  tobacco 
were  to  be  seen  than  there  was  in  the  army  of  Eng- 
land. Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  appetite  for  the  weed  was 
afterwards  impaired  by  having  his  head  cut  off.  His 
memory  has  been  puffed  as  a  great  benefactory  to  the 
human  race  that  smokes.  Tobacco,  when  rolled  up 
into  cigars,  is  a  very  agreeable  preparation,  and  the 
mildest  form  in  which  it  is  used.  Some  people  take  it 
in  snuff,  by  holding  the  snuff  between  the  thumb  and 
finger,  and  drawing  it  up  into  the  nose.  This  is  an 
exciting  operation  with  elderly  females,  and  it  is  inter- 
esting to  watch  its  effects  when  the  nose  is  fully 
charged  and  primed,  before  it  sneezes  off.  Chewing 
and  smoking  belong  only  to  men,  and  such  boys  as  do 
it  on  the  sly,  when  the  old  folks  is  n't  round.  The  es- 
sential oil  of  tobacco  is  said  t»  be  very  dilatorious  to 
human  life.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  essential  that  there 
should  be  any  oil  about  it ;  but  the  apothecaries  will 
have  it  so.  Tobacco  is  called  a  great  leveller,  espe- 
cially when  a  fellow  gets  sick  in  trying  to  learn.  Then 
it  levels  men  flat  enough.  But  it  is  called  a  leveller 
because  a  rich  man  doesn't  feel  above  asking  a  poor 
chap  for  a  light  when  his  cigar  is  gone  out  —  a  beauti- 
ful and  sublime  instance  of  magnificent  condescension  1 


IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL.  381 

Tobacco  may  be,  from  this,  put  among  the  incentives 
to  virtuous  action,  and  a  box  of  short-sixes  become  a 
missionary  in  the  cause  of  civilization.  It  is  esti. 
mated  that  over  ten  millions  of  cigars  are  smoked  in 
Boston  in  a  year,  and  that,  if  they  were  stretched, 
one  behind  another,  they  would  reach  round  the  world 
three  times  !  It  is  also  said  that,  if  all  the  old  chaws  of 
tobacco  should  be  put  together  at  the  end  of  a  year, 
that  they  would  make  a  pile  bigger  'n  Mount  Washing- 
ton. The  great  invention  of  spittoons,  which  has  done 
so  much  to  fulfil  human  expectoration,  is  the  offspring 
of  tobacco,  and  gives  a  new  claim  of  that  delightful 
plant  to  our  gratitude.  It  is  a  great  help  in  agriculture, 
and  its  smoke  is  used  to  kill  bugs  on  flowers,  when  boys 
can  do  a  useful  turn,  and  have  fine  fun  in  smoking,  and 
nothing  be  said  about  it.  Much  more  might  be  writ 
about  tobacco,  but  I  will  conclude  by  just  saying  that 
it  is  a  great  pickpocket,  and  takes  the  money  away  from 
a  fellow  like  sixty. 

The  following,  of  a  similar  character  with  the  above, 
also  excited  considerable  remark  among  the  scholars  : 

THE   AMEEICAN   EAGLE. 

THIS  is  the  greatest  bird  that  has  ever  spread  his 
wings  over  this  great  and  glorious  country.  The  place 
where  he  builds  his  nest  is  called  an  eyrie,  away  up  on 
the  precipices  where  the  foot  of  man  can't  come,  though 
perhaps  a  boy's  might.  The  eagle  is  a  ferocious  fellow, 
and  sits  on  the  top  of  the  cliffs  and  looks  sharp  for 
plunder.  He  gets  tired  of  waiting,  and  then  he  starts 
out  in  the  blue  expensive  heavens,  and  soars  all  around, 
on  his  opinions,  over  the  land  and  the  water,  to  see 


382  IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL. 

what  he  can  pounce  down  upon.  But,  though  he  is 
called  a  very  cruel  bird,  he  always  preys  before  eating, 
just  like  any  good  moral  man  at  the  head  of  his  family. 
He  eats  his  victuals  raw,  which  is  an  unfavorable  habit, 
but  it  is  supposed  that  he  eats  it  so  because  he  likes 
to.  He  is  a  very  courageous  bird,  and  will  fight  like 
blazes  for  his  young,  and  steals  chickens  wherever  he 
can  see  them.  He  has  been  known  to  carry  off  a  young 
baby  to  his  nest,  which  seems  to  show  that  eagles  love 
little  children.  He  is  a  bird  of  great  talons,  and  is  much 
respected  by  birds  of  the  feathered  tribe  that  are  afraid 
of  him. 

This  bird  is  a  great  study  for  artists,  but  appears  to 
best  advantage  on  the  ten-dollar  gold  pieces,  and  fifty- 
cent  pieces,  and  pretty  well  on  the  dimes,  as  he  sits 
gathering  up  his  thunderbolts  under  him,  as  if  he  was 
in  a  great  hurry  to  be  off.  He  has  lately  broke  out  on 
the  new  cent,  and  seems  as  if,  in  his  hurry,  he  had 
dropped  all  his  thunder.  The  American  eagle  is  the 
patriot's  hope,  and  the  inspiration  of  Fourth  of  July. 
He  soars  through  the  realms  of  the  poet's  fancy,  and 
whets  his  beak  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  orator's 
imagination.  He  is  in  the  mouth  of  every  politician, 
BO  to  speak.  He  is  said  by  them  to  stand  on  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  to  dip  his  bill  into  the  Atlantic,  while 
his  tail  casts  a  shadow  on  the  Pacific  coast.  This  is  all 
gammon.  There  never  was  one  more  than  eight  feet 
long  from  the  tip  of  one  wing  to  the  tip  of  tother.  His 
angry  scream  is  heard  ever  so  far,  and  he  don't  care  a 
feather  for  anybody.  Take  him  every  way,  he  is  an 
immense  fowl,  and  his  march  is  over  the  mounting  wave, 
with  the  star-spangled  banner  in  his  hand,  whistling 
Yankee  Doodle. 


IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  m  SCHOOL.  383 

Ike's  composition  upon  the  Dog  has  obtained  a  world 
wide  celebrity,  and  has  already  been  installed  as  a 
classic : 

THE  DOG. 

THE  dog  is  a  very  useful  animal,  and  very  intelligent. 
He  knows  lots  and  noses  more,  and  runs  after  sticks 
and  goes  overboard  after  stones  delightfully.  He  is  a 
fine  companion  in  the  fields,  and  chases  grasshoppers 
and  ground  sparrows  beautifully.  He  is  a  loving 
animal,  and  licks  your  hand  when  you  lick  him.  He 
don't  never  smile,  but  has  a  ridiculous  way  of  wagging 
his  tail  when  he  is  glad,  as  if  by  his  tail  he  would  tell 
the  story  of  his  joy.  Dogs  is  very  apt  to  quarrel, 
especially  when  they  are  set  on  by  bad  boys,  and  grow] 
and  bark  at  nights,  and  howl  under  windows  where 
folks  are  sick,  and  scare  timid  folks  to  death  for  fear 
they  are  going  to  die.  A  dog's  nose  is  a  prime  thing 
to  pinch,  and  seems  to  be  put  where  it  is  on  purpose. 
Some  say  that  it  is  made  of  India-rubber,  but  that's  alJ 
nonsense. 

A  great  many  things  are  told  about  dogs  and  theii 
intelligence.  Some  of  'em  are  true,  and  some  of  'em 
isn't.  They  can  carry  bundles,  and  know  when  it  is 
time  to  go  to  dinner,  and  love  to  tease  cats,  and  make 
a  terrible  fuss  when  any  one  puts  turpentine  on  'em  or 
ties  kettles  to  their  tails.  There  is  a  great  many  differ- 
ent kinds  of  dogs,  and  no  one  kind  alike.  There  are 
pointers,  and  setters,  and  tarriers,  and  bull-dogs,  and 
lap-dogs,  and  spaniels,  and  water-dogs,  and  Newfound- 
land dogs,  and  St.  Bernard's  dogs,  and  watch-dogs,  and 
dog-watches,  and  Lion.  Pointers  and  setters  are  used 
by  hunters  in  finding  game,  and  are  liable  to  get  shot 
by  near-sighted  people  who  can't  tell  a  dog  from  a  rab- 
bit. Newfoundland  dogs  were  sent  by  Providence  on 


384  IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL. 

purpose  to  pull  little  children  from  the  water,  and  the 
St.  Bernard's  to  keep  folks  from  freezing  to  death  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  They  take  little  boys  on  their  backs, 
and  carry  them  to  some  safe  place,  and  then  go  back 
after  more.  Bull-dogs  are  vicious  beasts,  and  don't  like 
to  have  boys  meddle  with  'em,  and  the  boys,  being  very 
considerate,  does  n't  meddle  with  'em.  They  let  'em 
alone  ever  so  much,  and  don't  tackle  'em  into  wagons, 
as  they  do  some  others.  Lap-dogs  au't  of  no  use  to 
nobody  but  for  women  to  play  with  who  an't  got  no 
children,  and  it  is  a  pity  they  had  n't.  They  are  made 
on  purpose,  and  have  long,  white,  silky  hair,  and  blue 
ribbons  round  their  necks.  All  the  lap-dogs  are  named 
Fiddle.  The  faithful  watch-dog  is  an  unwholesome  chap 
for  burglars.  "  I  love  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest 
bark,"  and  it  is  prime  to  strike  on  to  the  shutters  of  a 
store  in  the  evening,  and  hear  what  a  muss  the  watch- 
dog makes  about  it.  They  don't  like  to  be  disturbed,  I 
guess,  from  their  cat-naps.  Lion  is  a  great  dog. 

He  is  gentle,  he  is  kind, 
And  his  tail  sticks  out  behind, 

and  you  can't  find  a  better  dog  anywhere  than  he.  He 
is  black  all  over,  only  he  is  white  on  his  stomach,  and 
on  the  end  of  his  tail.  He  loves  fun,  and  goes  into  the 
dirt  with  perfect  impurity.  He  knows  when  it  is  dinner- 
time, and  is  very  useful  in  clearing  up  stray  bits  of 
meat  that  might  be  wasted.  He  's  a  great  friend  to  the 
Metropolitan  Railroad,  for  it  is  over  two  years  since  he 
first  attempted  to  bark  the  omnibuses  out  of  Washing- 
ton-street, and  if  he  has  one  failing  stronger  than 
another,  it  is  a  love  for  the  butcher  on  Shawmut-avenue, 
whom  he  never  fails  to  call  upon  when  passing.  I 
could  tell  you  more  about  dogs,  and  dog-vanes,  and 


IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL.  385 

doggerel,  and  sad  dogs,  and  merry  dogs  ;  but  you  might 
think  me  dogmatical,  and  I  guess  I  've  said  enough. 

Ike's  ideas  of  Politics,  are  very  profound,  showing  a 
remarkable  astuteness  in  the  mind  of  Young  America : 

POLITICS. 

POLITICS  is  a  name  derived  from  two  Greek  words,  poll 
and  tick.  Polls  is  the  place  where  people  exercises  their 
free  sufferings,  after  they  have  paid  nine  shillings  for  'em 
into  the  city  treasury ;  and  tick  is  trust,  that  all  the 
parties  want  the  people  to  have  in  'em  before  election  ; 
and  both  together  make  Politics,  an  institution  of  our 
country  next  to.  the  house  of  correction  in  importance. 
Politics  is  a  business  that  has  to  be  followed  pretty 
close  to  make  anything  by  it,  and  is  made  up  of  hurras, 
torch-light  processions,  music,  mass  meetings,  and  hum- 
bug. Politics  is  an  interesting  element  in  families 
where  the  people  all  think  differently,  and  go  in  strong 
for  discussion  ;  it  keeps  things  lively,  and  is  excellent 
for  weak  lungs.  Torch-light  processions  are  great  for 
lightening  the  minds  of  the  people,  and  the  pockets  of 
them  that  gets  'em  up.  These,  with  American  flags  and 
Hail  Columbia,  makes  the  people  take  fire  with  enthu- 
siasm, and  take  cold  in  the  night  air,  as  they  go  round 
making  Judies  of  themselves  and  everybody  that  looks 
at  'em.  Politics  is  very  apt  to  bring  about  broken 
heads  among  them  that  indulges  in  'em  too  freely,  like 
whiskey,  and  it  is  always  best  to  see  that  you  get  the 
right  article.  There  's  a  number  of  kinds  of  politics, 
and  every  politician  believes  his  kind  is  best.  The 
Democrats  think  theirs  is  best,  and  the  Whigs,  and  the 
Republicans,  and  the  Americans,  theirs.  They  can't  be 
all  best.  Those  are  the  best  that  are  the  strongest,  and 
•  83  25 


386  IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL. 

elections  always  result  in  favor  of  them  that  has  the 
most  votes.  Politics  is  capital  exercise  for  the  ingenu 
ity  of  women  who  have  n't  anything  else  to  do  at  home, 
whose  babies  can  take  care  of  themselves,  and  won't 
tumble  into  the  fire  if  they  leave  'em  to  go  to  political 
meetings,  or  to  see  torch-light  processions.  Politics  is 
the  meat  that  the  American  eagle  feeds  on  when  he 
soars  to  heaven,  and  then  comes  down  again  as  hungry 
as  a  meeting-house.  Politics  should  be  sustained  among 
our  most  cherished  institutions,  and  next  to  fun,  clam- 
chowder,  and  going  smelting,  they  are  the  best  thing 
round. 

"  The  star-spangled  banner,  0,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  !  " 

The  following,  relating  to  a  famous  locality,  will  be 
read  with  deep  interest,  for  its  truthfulness  to  history, 
and  for  other  reasons  : 

PLYMOUTH   ROCK. 

THIS  rock  was  brought  to  this  country  in  the  May 
Flower,  in  the  year  1492.  by  the  Pilgrims,  under  direc- 
tions of  Elder  Brewster,  who  afterwards  moved  to 
Boston,  and  became  an  alderman  of  that  city.  Plymouth 
Rock  was  put  on  a  wharf,  where  part  of  it  remains  tov 
the  present  day,  as  people  may  see,  if  they  will  take 
the  trouble  to  scratch  the  dirt  away.  No  reason  is 
given  for  putting  the  rock  up  so  far  from  the  watei, 
except  it  was  to  keep  it  out  of  the  wet.  It  was  on  this 
rock  that  Governor  Carver  shook^  hands  with  Samoset, 
who  said,  "Welcome,  Englishmen."  It  is  recorded  that 
when  Samoset  came  up  Governor  Carver  asked  him  if 
he  was  a  real  Ingine,  or  only  a  member  of  an  Ingine 
company.  The  rock  has  long  been  regarded  as  a  very 


IKE'S  COMPOSITIONS  IN  SCHOOL.  387 

famous  place,  and  a  great  many  things  have  been 
written  about  it.  Strangers  coming  on  the  coast  always 
climb  to  the  mast-heads  with  a  spy-glass  to  see  Plym- 
outh Rock.  The  American  Eagle  for  a  great  many 
years  used  to  come  and  whet  his  beak  on  it ;  but  in 
1653,  Miles  Standish,  in  order  to  keep  it  from  getting 
stolen,  took  all  there  was  of  it  above  ground  under  his 
arm,  and  carried  it  up  and  put  it  in  front  of  Pilgrim 
Hall,  where  it  remains  at  the  present  time,  invested  with 
great  interest  and  an  iron  fence.  The  fence  bears  the 
names  of  all  the  Pilgrims  in  cast-iron  letters  that  can't 
be  rubbed  out.  The  other  part  of  the  rock  the  descend- 
ants of  the  Pilgrims  have  covered  up  with  land,  prob 
ably  to  save  it  from  being  worn  out  by  the  allusions 
touching  it,  that  are  thrown  off  by  Fourth  of  July  ora- 
tors and  other  patriots.  Plymouth  Rock  is  the  corner 
stone  in  the  cellar  wall  of  our  republican  structure, 
paregorically  speaking,  and  the  spirit  of  Liberty  sits 
upon  it  with  a  drawn  sword  in  one  hand  and  the  torch 
of  freedom  in  the  other.  The  monument  to  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  upon  Plymouth  Rock,  will  be  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  can  be  easily  seen 
from  New  Haven,  the  place  the  Pilgrims  came  from, 
with  the  naked  eye.  It  was  concerning  this  rock  that 
Pierpont  wrote  his  celebrated  ode,  commencing, 

"  We  've  found  the  rock,  the  travellers  cried," 

supposed  to  allude  to  the  Cushman  procession  that 
visited  the  spot,  at  the  time  of  the  great  famine.  Pere- 
grine White,  the  first  white  child  born  in  Massachusetts 
was  born  on  Plymouth  Rock,  and  Miles  Standish,  when 
John  Alden  swindled  him  out  of  Priscilla,  in  1803, 
sharpened  his  sword  on  Plymouth  Rock,  swearing 


388  MRS.   SLED   PUT   OUT. 

revenge.  In  short,  Plymouth  Rock  is  one  of  the  pal- 
ladiums of  our  liberty  ;  and  if  foes  invade  the  shores  of 
Plymouth  at  high  water,  —  for  they  can  never  get  in  at 
low  tide,  —  the  people  will  throw  this  rock  in  their 
teeth.  It  is  a  precious  legacy  from  the  Past  to  the 
Present,  and  from  it  may  be  reckoned  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress. 


MRS.    SLED    PUT    OUT. 

"  I  'VE  just  come  from  seeing  old  Mr.  Sprat,"  said 
Mrs.  Sled,  dropping  in  upon  Mrs.  Partington,  suddenly, 
and  sinking  into  a  seat  as  she  spoke.  "  Poor  creatur,  he 
does  look  miser'ble  ;  he 's  got  one  foot  in  the  grave,  you 
may  depend."" — "  Has  he,  indeed?"  said  the  sympathetic 
dame.  "Well,  I  noticed,  the  other  day, he  walked  rather 
limpid,  as  he  went  along."  Mrs.  Partington  sniffed  as  if 
she  smelt  something.  "  It  seems  to  be  cotton  a  burn- 
ing," said  she,  drawing  a  long  breath ;  "  don't  you  smell 
anything  ?  "  Mrs.  Sled  informed  her  that  she  had  a  bad 
cold  in  her  head,  and  could  n't  be  exactly  said  to  pos- 
sess any  of  her  five  senses.  Mrs.  Partington  sniffed 
again.  "I  declare,"  said  the  lady  whose  five  senses 
were  blunted  by  the  cold,  "  I  declare  I  feel  something," 
which  showed  that  the  sense  of  feeling  was  not  want- 
ing, and,  jumping  to  her  feet,  disclosed  her  dress  on  fire 
behind.  "  Get  off  my  match-rope  !  "  said  Ike,  dashing  in 
TPith  half  a  bunch  of  crackers  in  his  hand.  The  intima- 
tion was  unnecessary,  and,  as  Mrs.  Sled  extinguished 
herself  in  the  sink,  she  breathed  an  inward  prayer  for 
the  hope  of  the  house  of  Partington. 


TALE   OF  A  HOESE.  389 


TALE    OF    A    HORSE. 

WHEN  Topple  was  in  the  horse-trade,  he  had  his  eyes 
constantly  about  him  for  a  speculation,  and  one  day,  in 
Vermont,  he  fell  in,  among  other  specimens,  with  a 
horse  whose  principal  points  were  the  points  of  bono 
projecting  through  his  skin,  —  a  long,  lean,  lank,  white 
animal,  that  had  got  some  way  beyond  his  teens,  whose 
qualities  as  a  good  horse  were  vouched  for  by  a  neigh- 
bor, who  said  he  had  knowed  him  for  twenty-four  year, 
and  a  kinder  critter  never  led  oxen  in  a  plough  than  he. 

The  horse  was  bought  at  a  discount,  and  shipped, 
with  three  others,  on  a  car  for  Boston,  where  he  arrived 
safe,  but  scarcely  sound.  Topple  thought  it  a  hard  in- 
vestment, and  felt  somewhat  anxious  as  to  how  he 
should  get  his  money  back  again,  concluding  at  last 
that  he  would  undoubtedly  make  enough  on  the  other 
three  to  cover  the  loss  which  he  must,  he  conceived, 
sustain  on  this  one.  He  had  him  stabled,  and  then  the 
idea  occurred  to  Topple  that  he  would  attempt  a  little 
factitious  excellence  for  the  poor  beast,  and  endeavor  to 
put  him  off  respectably.  A  horse  of  some  celebrity  had 
died  just  before,  and  Topple  borrowed  a  large  cover 
that  was  wont  to  envelop  the  animal  after  running,  and 
covered  up  his  own  Rosinante  therewith. 

Immediately  afterwards  appeared  an  advertisement  in 
the  Post  and  other  papers,  that  the  famous  trotter 
White-Foot  was  on  exhibition  at  Bailey's,  and  would  be  4 
sold  on  a  certain  day,  inviting  people  to  call  and  see 
him.  The  usual  formula  was  gone  through  with,  ot 
"  sound,"  "  kind,"  "  stand  without  tieing,"  <fec.,  conclud- 
ing with  the  statement  that  he  had  gone  his  mile  in  less* 
than  three  minutes.  The  advertisement  brought  many 
horse  fanciers  to  the  stable,  where  White-Foot  s»tood 
33* 


390  TALE  OF  A  HORSE. 

in  a  bed  of  straw,  covered  by  the  robe  that  had  been 
borrowed. 

Topple  thought  that  boldness  was  the  best  policy 
and  called  the  attention  of  his  visitors  to  the  fact  of  the 
horse  being  so  poor,  making  the  statement  gratuitously 
that  he  had  fairly  run  the  flesh  off  his  bones ;  and  it 
seemed  probable,  as  the  flesh  was  not  there. 

As  the  day  of  sale  arrived,  Topple  visited  his  racer  at 
regular  periods,  and  with  a  lath,  rigorously  applied, 
endeavored  to  excite  in  him  a  disposition  to  appear  vig- 
orous on  inspection  before  the  public  ]  and  succeeded 
so  far  that,  before  the  time  arrived,  the  sound  of  Top- 
pie's  feet  on  the  stable-floor  wrought  the  poor  beast  up 
to  a  perfect  frenzy.  He  stamped  and  struggled  in  a 
manner  extravagant  enough  to  establish  a  large  repu- 
tation for  mettle,  and  Topple  was  satisfied.  "  Perhaps," 
whispered  he  to  the  auctioneer,  "  we  may  get  fifty  dol- 
lars for  him." 

The  horse  was  brought  to  the  block,  and  at  the  sight 
of  Topple  he  manifested  every  sign  of  spirit.  His  nos- 
trils were  distended,  his  eye  brightened,  and  he  stepped 
round  nervously,  as  though  he  were  impatient  to  have 
somebody  buy  him,  that  he  might  be  going,  inside  of 
three  minutes,  over  the  road. 

"  How  much  am  I  offered  for  the  horse  ?  "  said  Bai- 
ley ;  "  how  much  for  White-Foot  ?  Shall  I  have  a  bid  ?'• 

"  Seventy-five  dollars,"  said  a  voice. 

•'  Seventy-five  —  thank  j  ou  —  seventy-five  —  shall  I 
hear  any  more  ?  " 

"  One  hundred,"  another  voice. 

"  Twenty-five,"  first  bidder. 

"  Fifty,"  second. 

"  Go  on,  gentlemen,"  said  Bailey,  letting  the  bidding 
proceed,  seeing  the  competition ;  "  any  more  than  one 


TALE   OP   A   HORSE.  391 

hundred  and  fifty  for  a  horse  that  has  teen  his  mile  in 
less  than  three  minutes  ?  " 

"  One  hundred  and  sixty,"  another  bidder. 

"  Sixty-five,"  first  bidder. 

"  Seventy,"  a  new  voice. 

"  Seventy-five  !  "  first  and  second  together. 

"  Any  more  than  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  ?  All 
•done  at  one  —  seventy  —  five  ?  Sold  !  Dr.  Small,  of 
Cape  Cod,  takes  him  at  one  hundred  and  seventy-five." 

"  The  bid  was  mine,"  said  the  second  bidder ;  "  and  I 
insist  upon  it." 

The  contestant  was  a  man  living  in  town,  and  the 
auctioneer  thought  that,  for  prudential  reasons,  it  would 
be  better  to  let  the  beast  go  out  of  town,  if  he  had 
strength  to  get  out;  so  he  gravely  decided  that  Dr. 
Small's  bid  was  the  one  he  had  heard,  and  to  him  he 
had  knocked  off  the  bargain. 

So  anxious  was  the  disappointed  man  to  procure  the 
horse  that  he  offered  the  doctor  fifteen  dollars  for  his 
bargain,  who  informed  him  that  he  could  not  trade. 
The  price,  he  said,  was  not  much  to  him  ;  he  wanted  a 
horse  that  would  go  quickly,  and,  as  he  had  got  a  good 
one,  he  should  hold  on  to  him. 

The  money  was  paid  over,  and  the  animal  delivered 
to  the  purchaser,  who  procured  a  wagon  and  harness 
and  started  for  home,  in  the  hope  of  reaching  Cape  Cod 
in  about  two  hours.  About  that  length  of  time  after 
he  left,  a  horse  was  heard  moderately  approaching  the 
stable,  and  the  face  of  old  White-Foot  was  seen  once 
more  in  the  precinct. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  got  out  of  the  wagon, 
"  I  Avant  to  do  now,  what  I  should  have  done  before, 
ask  about  this  horse.  Who  knows  anything  about  him  ? 
This  advertisement  says,"  —  holding  up  a  copy  of  the 


392  MRS.   PARTINGTON   ON  THE   CURRENCY. 

Post  and  reading  the  description  —  "  that  he  has  been 
his  mile  inside  of  three  minutes.  Now,  I  should  like  to 
know  when." 

"  Not  more  than  three  weeks  ago  he  did  it,"  replied 
Topple ;  "  I  saw  him  myself." 

"  Where,  for  goodness'  sake  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  On  the  down  grade  of  the  Rutland  Railroad,  in  a 
freight-car,"  replied  the  imperturbable  Topple. 


MRS.  PARTINGTON    ON   THE    CURRENCY. 

"!T  's  always  so,"  said  Mrs.  Partington,  turning  over 
in  her  hand  a  Spanish  quarter  of  a  dollar;  and  Ike,  who 
was  tackling  Lion  to  the  clothes-basket,  lifted  up  hia 
eyes  inquiringly  to  her  face.  "  It 's  always  so,"  she 
continued,  "  that  the  muscular  gender  is  put  before  the 
ephemeral.  No  matter  what  it  Js  about.  If  a  baby  is 
born  into  a  family,  it  is  Mr.  So-and-so's  baby  —  the 
mother  has  n't  anything  to  do  about  it.  She  is  n't  any- 
wheres in  courts  of  law  or  iniquity,  and  her  rights  is 
thought  no  more  of  than  the  wind,  which  goes  where  it 
listeth.  She  has  n't  nothing  to  say  about  the  disposi- 
tion of  her  property,  or  that  of  her  children,  though 
heaven  knows  their  disposition  would  be  bad  enough 
unless  she  did  have  something  to  do  with  it.  And 
everything  bad  is  laid  against  her.  Now,  here  is  this 
occurrency  business,  as  soon  as  its  value  is  deprecated 
the  women  is  blamed  for  it."  Ike  got  up  and  looked 
at  the  coin,  and  thought  how  many  marbles,  and  how 
many  peanuts,  and  how  many  oranges,  and  how  many 
sticks  of  molasses  candy,  it  would  buy,  and  asked  her 
if  it  wasn't, a  good  one.  "Yes,"  replied  she;  "it  is 
good  as  far  as  it  goes,  and  this  is  the  mischief  of  it  — 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY  INCIDENT.          393 

when  it  was  worth  twenty-five  cents  it  was  said  to  be 
par  value,  and  now  that  it  is  cut  down  it  is  mar  value. 
It 's  always  so  about  everything.  There  an't  nothing 
like  justice  ever  done  to  the  women."  She  dropped 
the  coin  into  her  pocket,  and  it  jingled  merrily  among 
the  keys;  and  the  seven  copper  cents,  and  the  old  silver 
thimble,  and  the  scissors,  and  the  knitting-sheath,  and 
the  steel  spectacle-case,  as  if  it  were  not  a  poor,  depre- 
ciated thing  at  all,  but  were  yet  a  full  quarter.  And 
Ike  thought  out  this  moral  from  it,  with  the  help  of 
Lion:  That,  though  the  world  depreciate  us  twenty 
per  cent,  we  should  feel  just  as  happy  with  a  self-con- 
sciousness of  par  value  at  heart,  and  jingle  on  merrily 
among  the  old  copper  or  brass  that  may  be  around  us. 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY  INCIDENT. 

PHIZ  !  snap  !  bang !  and  a  half-bunch  of  red  crackers 
cut  up  mad  capers  in  Mrs.  Partington's  little  kitchen, 
while  the  old  lady  mounted  in  a  chair,  with  terror  on 
her  face  and  blue  yarn  stockings  on  her  feet,  to  get 
out  of  the  way  of  the  concussion.  The  crackers  were 
thrown  into  the  windows,  and  the  smoke  of  the  vil- 
lanous  saltpetre  scaled  the  newly  whitewashed  ceiling, 
and  rolled  up  in  volume  before  the  profile  of  the  old 
corporal  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  a  fitting  offering  to 
the  military  hero  thus  preserved.  "  Gracious  good- 
ness ! "  said  Mrs.  Partington,  with  a  voice  of  alarm, 
looking  amid  the  smoke  like  the  sun  in  a  foggy  morn- 
ing. "  What  upon  airth  is  coming  now?  who  throwed 
them  snap-dragons  in  here  to  frighten  me  into  my 
grave  before  my  time  comes?"  Snap!  went  another 
cracker,  directly  beneath  the  chair  on  which  she  was 


394  SCRATCHED   GNEISS   AND   BEAR  SKIN. 

standing.  "Bless  me  !  who  's  a-doing  of  it?  I  see  you, 
you  inflammable  scamp ! "  said  she,  looking  hard  at 
the  window ;  but  it  was  a  pleasant  fiction,  an  expedient 
of  her  fancy  that  the  exigency  suggested.  She  waited 
a  moment  and  got  down  from  the  chair,  when,  bouncing 
in  through  the  window,  came  another  cracker,  exploding 
close  to  Mrs.  Partington's  ear.  Incensed  at  this,  she 
looked  from  the  window  to  see  the  perpetrator  of  the 
outrage,  but  could  see  nothing.  Could  she  but  have 
looked  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  she  would  have 
detected  Ike's  red  face  wrinkled  with  mirth,  and  a  piece 
of  port-fire  about  an  inch  long  between  that  promising 
young  gentleman's  fingers.  "  Something  certainly  must 
be  afire,"  said  she,  shortly  afterwards,  searching  round, 
under  the  table,  in  the  clothes-basket,  in  the  reticule 
upon  the  chair ;  but  not  a  spark  of  fire  could  she  find. 
"  It  must  be  cotton  a  burning,"  continued  she,  feeling 
anxious.  —  "  Your  cap  's  blazing,"  said  Ike,  looking  in 
innocently ;  and  the  old  lady  tore  the  burning  muslin 
from  her  head  and  threw  it  on  the  floor.  As  she  told 
the  story  to  Ike  about  the  crackers,  how  he  wished  he 
had  been  at  home  that  he  might  have  defended  her ! 
and  the  dame  gave  him  a  bright  dime  for  his  earnest 
devotion. 


SCRATCHED    GNEISS   AND    BEAR    SKIN. 

"  WHAT  is  the  meaning  of  '  scratched  gneiss '?  "  said 
Ike,  stopping  in  the  perusal  of  Dr.  Kane's  work,  as  his 
eye  was  attracted  by  a  picture  of  a  rock  thus  indicated. 
The  old  lady  had  listened  to  some  passages  of  the  book, 
which  he  had  read  to  her,  with  tearful  interest.  "  It 
must  be,"  said  she,  after  a  few  moments'  reflection, 
"  where  they  scratched  'em  in  climbing  up  over  the 


WATERING-PLACES.  395 

rocks."  —  "Scratched  what?"  cried  Ike,  interrupting 
her. — "Their  knees,"  replied  she. — "Who  said  knees?" 
responded  he,  saucily ;  "  I  said  gneiss  —  g-n-e-i-s-s  — 
what's  that?" — "I  guess  it  means  knees,"  said  she; 
"  the  printer  has  spelt  it  wrong.  It  is  strange  what 
queer  arrows  they  do  make  in  printing.  They  were  in 
their  bare  skins,  you  know,  and  got  their  knees  scratched. 
How  cold  they  must  have  been,  to  be  sure !"  Ike  turned 
to  the  picture  of  Accomodah,  and  asked  her  if  he  was 
in  his  bare  skin,  emphasizing  the  word  "  bare ; "  and 
asked  her,  too,  if  she  had  lived  so  long  in  the  world  and 
did  n't  know  the  difference  between  a  bare  skin  and  a 
bear  skin.  What  knowledge  the  youngster  evinced 
He  could  show  his  grandmother  how  to  suck  eggs  !  Mrs. 
Partington  looked  gravely  at  him.  "  I  could  know  very 
easily  what  a  bare  skin  was,"  said  she,  "  if  I  was  to 
treat  you  as  you  deserve,  for  your  misrespect."  Ike 
seemed  penitent,  and  she  gave  him  a  three-cent  piece 
to  save  till  he  got  enough  to  put  into  the  Five-Cent 
Savings  Bank. 


WATERING-PLACES. 

"  ARE  you  going  to  any  watering-place,  this  summer?" 
asked  a  young  friend  of  Mrs.  Partington,  on  one  of  the 
rainy  days,  the  present  week.  She  had  just  put  up  the 
window  to  keep  out  the  damp  and  disagreeable  air,  and 
palled  her  handkerchief  more  up  over  her  shoulder  to 
keep  off  the  chill.  "  Watering-places,"  said  she,  with  a 
gentle  tap  on  the  cover  of  her  box,  at  the  same  time 
looking  at  Ike,  who  was  engaged  in  making  a  kite  out 
of  the  last  Puritan  Recorder,  that  the  dame  had  lain  by 
for  her  Sunday  reading, — "  watering-places  I  don't  think 


396  HEZEKIAH  AND   RUTH. 

much  of,  now-a-days.  There  an't  no  need  of  em  since 
the  lucky-motives  have  run  off  with  the  stages ;  hut 
once,  as  the  old  pumps  stood  by  the  waysides,  under 
the  ambiguous  trees,  with  a  hollow  log  for  the  cattle 
to  drink  out  of,  it  seemed  like  a  horses  in  the  desert, 
as  some  of  'em  used  to  say."  —  "  My  dear  madam,"  said 
her  young  friend,  "  I  mean  the  fashionable  watering- 
places,  where  people  go  to  spend  the  summer."  —  "  0," 
she  replied,  "  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  Well,  we  need  n't  go 
away  from  home  to  find  a  watering-place  to-day ;  and, 
them  that  do,  depend  upon  it,"  —  and  here  she  laid  her 
mouth  close  to  his  ear,  and  spoke  in  a  whisper, —  "they 
go  for  something  else  besides  the  water  ! "  She  gave 
him  a  queer  look  as  she  said  this,  and  pointed  signifi- 
cantly to  the  little  buffet  in  the  corner,  where  an  old- 
fashioned  cut-glass  decanter  stood,  surrounded  by  half 
a  dozen  little  glasses,  as  if  they  were  young  decanters 
just  hatched  out ;  but  what  she  meant  we  dare  not  at- 
tempt to  explain.  Ike  just  then  finished  his  kite  by 
burning  the  holes  for  the  "  belly-band  "  with  the  small 
point  of  Mrs.  Partington's  scissors,  that  had  been  heated 
red-hot  for  the  purpose. 


HEZEKIAH    AND    RUTH. 

A   STORY   WITH   A   MORAL. 

'T  WAS  in  the  summer  season  of  the  year, 
In  some  town  somewhere  near  to  Lebanon, 

One  Sabbath  afternoon  serene  and  clear, 
The  Shaking  Quaker  meeting  being  done, 

That  Hezekiah  Drab  and  Ruth  his  sister 
Left  the  conventicle  and  homeward  went ; 

The  service  had  been  a  tremendous  "  twister  "  — 
Three  mortal  hours  of  sleep  and  silence  blent 


HEZEKIAH   AND   RUTH.  397 

And  Hez.,  to  make  the  distance  somewhat  shorter, 

Proposed  to  Ruth  to  cut  across  the  field, 
And  she,  as  an  obedient  sister  ought  to, 

Said  but  "  Yea,  verily,"  and  round  they  wheeled. 

They  wandered  on  in  silence,  Hezekiah 

With  his  broad  brim  substantially  put  on, 
Whilst  Ruth,  straight  down,  in  simplest  of  attire, 

Looked  like  a  chest  of  drawers,  the  brasses  gone 

And  on  they  went  across  the  fields  of  fern, 

And  on  through  meadows  drest  in  greenest  guise  • 
Not  to  the  right  or  left  did  either  turn, 

But  kept  right  on,  just  as  the  wild  bee  flies. 

.- 

At  last  they  neared  a  brook  of  wide  expanse, 

No  bridge  or  ford  to  cross  its  turbid  flood. 
"Verily,"  quoth  Hezekiah,  in  advance, 

"  It  seemeth  me  we  're  stopped,  as  clear  as  mud. 

"  But  yet  the  distance  is  but  small,  forsooth, 

And  when  a  boy  I  've  jumped  far  more  than  that."  — 

"  Yea,  but,  my  brother,"  said  the  prudent  Ruth, 

"  Now  thou  art  older  grown,  and  round,  and  fat.'  — 

"  Thou  talkest  like  a  very  foolisL  woman, 

And  thou  shalt  see  my  speediness  of  limb  ;  - 
So  stand  aside  and  give  me  ample  room  in 

Which  to  run,  and  o'er  the  pool  to  skim  !  "  • 

"  Thee  cannot,  Hezekiah,"  urged  the  maid  ; 

But  Hezekiah's  pluck,  't  was  vain  to  stump  it  1 
He  looked  broad  at  her,  saying,  "  Who  's  afraid? 

I  tell  thee,  Ruth,  assuredly  I  '11  jump  it." 

He  threw  his  broad  brim  on  the  turfy  ground, 
Then  walked  away  a  distance  from  the  brook, 

Then  started  onward  with  a  mighty  bound, 
The  while  his  fat  form  like  a  jelly  shook. 

He  leaped  —  0,  cruel  Fate,  that  thus  will  dash 
The  finest  hopes  that  ever  yet  did  spring  !  — 

Down  went  the  Quaker  in  the  pool,  "  ker-splash,* 
Just  like  a  brick,  or  such  ignoble  thing. 
84 


398  BURGLARS   IN   THE   PARTINGTON   MANSION. 

And  Ruth's  clear  voice  rang  out  right  merrily  ; 

0,  laughed  she  with  unquaker  freedom  stout ! 
"  Thou  well  hast  proved  thy  great  agility  — 

Come  hither,  brother,  aud  I  '11  help  thee  out ' 

Then  Hezekiah,  with  a  doleful  look, 

Cooled  the  ambitious  fever  of  his  blood, 

Crawled  from  the  bottom  of  the  turbid  brook, 
And  from  his  face  wiped  the  obscuring  mud. 

"  Now,  sister  Ruth,"  cried  he,  "  this  brook  is  wide  ; 

And  though  my  foot  is  firm  and  fleet  my  bound, 
I  must  confess  that  I  am  satisfied 

'T  is  best  not  jump  upon  uncertain  ground." 


All  ye  who,  like  the  Quaker,  choose  to  leap, 
Be  sure  at  first  that  you  can  clear  the  flood, 

Lest,  like  the  Quaker,  you  may  come  off  cheap. 
And  find  your  fortunes  floundering  in  the  mud. 


BURGLARS    IN    THE    PARTINGTON    MANSION. 

THE  conversation  turned  upon  various  burglaries  that 
had  been  committed  in  the  town,  and  Mrs.  Partington 
gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  any  one  who  would  bulga- 
riously  break  into  a  house  would  be  mean  enough  to 
steal,  particularly  if  he  took  anything.  This  opinion 
was  given  without  any  hesitation,  and  the  listeners 
admitted  that  they  thought  so  too.  The  old  dame  was 
standing  with  her  snuff-box  in  her  left  hand,  and  her 
right  fore-finger  raised,  preparatory  to  making  some 
new  remark,  when  a  door  was  heard  to  slam  violently 
in  the  attic.  "  What  can  that  be  ?  "  said  one,  listening 
attentively,  with  ears  and  eyes  wide  open. — "  It  must  bo 
the  cat,"  replied  Mrs.  Partiugton,  calmly.  "  I  am  not 


BURGLARS   TN   THE   PARTINGTON   MANSION.  399 

infected  with  fear  of  bunglers.  Blessed  is  he  that  haa 
nothing,  for  it  can't  be  taken  'away  from  him."  A  noise 
as  of  a  stealthy  step  on  the  attic  stairs  was  heard  a 
moment  after.  "  What 's  that  ?  "  was  asked  by  one  of 
the  most  timid.  —  "  Don't  be  decomposed,"  said  Mrs. 
Partington  ;  "  it  may  be  a  breath  of  air,  but  we  will  go 
and  see  what  it  is."  She  was  always  very  resolute, 
and  never  heard  a  sound  in  the  house  that  she  did  not 
ascertain  at  once  what  caused  it.  The  dame  and  her 
guests  opened  the  door,  and  proceeded  to  the  attic  ;  but 
there  was  no  evidence  of  disarrangement  there.  They 
then  proceeded  through  all  the  rooms  to  the  cellar, 
with  the  same  result.  They  stopped  a  moment  to  listen, 
when  they  heard  the  door  of  a  closet  in  the  room  above 
gently  closed.  There  were  numerous  garments  hung 
in  this  closet ;  and,  among  the  rest,  the  black  bombazine 
dress  that  had  mourned  for  forty  years  the  loss  of  Paul. 
Cautiously  moving  towards  the  spot,  they  opened  the 
door.  Everything  hung  in  its  position.  There  were 
the  dress  and  sundry  flannel  garments,  that  we  forget 
the  name  of,  and  Ike's  Sunday  jacket,  and  lots  of  othei 
things.  They  were  just  about  turning  their  attention 
to  a  search  in  other  quarters,  when  the  timid  one  cried 
out,  "  There  is  the  bugler  !  "  And  sure  enough,  there, 
from  beneath  the  bombazine  dress,  protruded  a  pair  of 
legs  encased  in  blue  woollen  stockings,  and  terminat- 
ing with  a  pair  of  thick  brogans.  "  Who  are  you.  and 
what  do  you  want  ? "  said  Mrs.  Partington,  in  a  tone 
denoting  great  strength  of  mind,  and  some  lungs.  There 
was  no  answer  to  the  question,  though  a  spasmodic 
movement  in  one  of  the  blue  stockings  denoted  con- 
sciousness. "What  do  you  want  here?"  she  repeated, 
a  little  tremulous,  as  if  she  were  slightly  "  infected." 
"  Do  you  come  here  to  rob  us  in  our  beds,  and  murder 


400  A   TEXT   APPLIED. 

our  propriety  ?  "  She  probably  meant  "  murder  us  in 
our  beds  and  rob  us  of  our  property,"  but  she  evidently 
was  confused.  The  blue  yarn  stockings  still  maintained 
their  position.  "  If  you  dcn't  come  out,  I  '11  call  in  a 
policeman  and  have  yoi*  shut  up  in  solitary  confine- 
ment." The  stockings  moved  ;  and  now  a  chink  opened 
among  the.  pendent  garments,  through  which  protruded 
a  face  glowing  with  mirth  and  mischief,  and  a  laugh, 
rich  and  unctuous  with  boyish  glee,  broke  the  silence. 
"  Why,  Isaac  !  "  said  the  good  dame,  <:  how  could  you 
do  so  ?  I  have  a  great  mind  to  punish  you  severally  for 
your  naughty  conduct."  But  Ike  and  the  blue  stock- 
ings passed  out  of  the  door,  and  anger  passed  from  the 
memory  of  Mrs.  Partington.  But  Miss  Prew,  who  had 
reached  the  period  when  chance  for  matrimony  had 
become  a  sort  of  dead  reckoning,  said  to  Mrs.  Spry, 
another  of  the  party,  that  if  that  boy  was  her'n,  she 
guessed  he  'd  have  to  take  some. 


A    TEXT    APPLIED. 

LOVE  one  another,  says  the  sacred  word,  — 

A  good  authority,  by  all  admitted  ; 
And  every  heart  by  -human  feeling  stirred 

Has  owned  the  high  command  as  for  it  fitted. 
Without  this  love  the  world  were  worse  than — well, 

I  'm  not  particular  the  place  to  mention, 
And  yet,  howe'er  with  it  the  bosom  swell, 

We  must  restrict  its  general  extension. 
Our  brothers  we  may  love,  but  ne'er  a  sis 

Beyond  the  limit  of  a  nice  convention, 
And  we  should  never  entertain  a  kiss 

E'en  in  our  most  remote  wish  or  intention. 
Woe  be  to  him  who  loves  some  little  sister, 
And  woer  still  should  he  by  chance  have  kissed  her. 


JUSTLY   CRITICAL.  —  STARRY.  401 

'JUSTLY  CRITICAL. 

"  WELL,  I  am  so  glad  it  all  came  out  right ! "  said  Mrs. 
Partington,  wiping  her  eyes  at  the  closing  scene  in 
Sonnambula.  "  I  confess,"  continued  she,  "  that  it  did 
look  agin  the  young  woman  to  be  found  in  the  bed  of 
the  strange  gentleman ;  but  she  had  her  shoes  and 
ciothes  on,  and,  if  the  young  man  had  really  loved  her, 
he  would  n't  have  believed  her  to  be  guilty  so  soon, — 
indeed,  he  would  n't ;  for,  depend  upon  it,  if  a  young 
man  really  loves  a  young  woman,  he  will  be  the  last  to 
believe  anything  to  her  decrepitude,  and  be  the  last  to 
cast  her  off.  And  them  pheasants,  too,  —  only  fhink  of 
the  sneaking  way  in  which  they  come  in  to  detect  her, 
as  if  it  was  their  business,  anyhow.  I  dare  say  none 
of  'em  was  any  better  than  they  ought  to  be  ;  and  what 
a  to-do  they  made,  to  be  sure,  because  they  thought  she 
was  guilty  !  0,  I  despise  sich  pretensiveriess  !  And  as 
for  the  girl  that  made  all  the  trouble,  I  could  see  that  she 
was  enviable,  and  wanted  the  young  man  herself,  and 
did  n't  care  any  more  about  the  virtoo  of  the  thing  than 
the  fifth  wheel  of  a  coach."  She  here  stopped,  and  thrust 
the  lorgnette  that  she  had  borrowed  into  its  case,  and 
drew  her  shawl  up  about  her  neck ;  while  Ike  stood  with 
the  blue  umbrella  at  "  present,"  waiting  for  her  to  come 
out  of  her  seat. 


STARRY. 

MRS.  PARTINGTON  opened  her  eyes  wide,  as  Ike  read 
in  the  paper  that  there  would  be  an  "  occupation  of 
Jupiter  with  the  moon." — "  Occultation  1 "  what  a  word 
for  Mrs.  Partington,  who  had  not  quite  all  of  Worcester's 
unabridged  dictionary  by  heart.  "  Occultation  ?  "  que- 
ried she,  with  an  air  of  doubt,  as  if  but  half  sure  that 
84*  26 


402  BIRTH-DAY   OP   LAFATETTJS 

she  had  heard  rightly,  and  looking  earnestly  at  the 
boy,  to  unravel  her  doubt. — "  Occupation,"  replied  Ike, 
putting  his  finger  on  the  word  with  an  emphasis  that 
made  a  hole  right  through  the  paper,  entirely  ruining 
the  story  of  the  "  Seven  Champions, .  or  the  Bloody 
Wreath,"  on  the  other  side  of  the  sheet ;  "  it  is  so 
here."  — "  Well,"  said  she,  "  get  the  directory  and  see 
what  is  oc  —  oc  —  "  —  "  Occultation,"  prompted  Ike,  as 
he  passed  out  to  find  his  school-books,  hid  during  vaca- 
tion time.  —  "  That  is  a  queer  word,"  meditated  she,  like 
Harvey  among  the  tombs ;  "  and  what  occupation  Ju- 
piter can  have  with  the  moon,  I  don't  see.  I  declare  I 
am  all  in  the  dark  about  it ;  and  these  explanatory  mat- 
ters, and  consternations  and  things,  I  believe  are  all 
moonshine.  Let  me  have  all  the  stars  to  look  at,  and 
other  folks  may  see  what  else  they  can  in  the  corncave 
on  high."  Ike  came  back  without  the  "  directory,"  and 
there  was  a  strange  dark  mark  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  that  looked  like  the  raspberry-jam  the  old  lady 
kept  up  stairs  for  sickness. 


BIRTH-DAY     OF   ^LAFAYETTE. 

BRIGHT  memory  of  the  past !  thy  lofty  name 

-Is  woven  with  our  land's  exalted  story, 
And  on  the  tablet  of  her  lasting  fame 

Is  wrought  in  fire  the  record  of  thy  glory. 
Entwined  with  Washington's  in  one  grand  line, 

'T  will  live  undiuimed  while  Freedom's  sons  inherit 
The  love  of  priceless  Liberty,  divine, 

Secured  to  them  by  his  chivalric  spirit 
While  generous  deeds  are  held  in  just  esteem, 

While  Virtue  claims  the  meed  of  approbation, 
While  Valor  weaves  the  warm  enthusiast's  dream 

While  Right  within  the  land  upholds  its  station, 
Will  grateful  memories,  like  to-day's,  return, 
To  wreathe  anew  the  garland  round  his  urn. 


CROAKING.  403 

CROAKING. 

COMMENCING  about  frog-time,  which  leads  to  a  half- 
belief  that  there  is  an  affinity  between  the  croakers  of 
the  human  family  and  those  of  the  marshes,  the  croakers 
begin  to  open  their  throats,  and  find  abundant  scope 
for  their  fancy  in  all  sorts  of  directions.  The  weather 
is  an  immensely  prolific  theme.  "  How  confounded  cold 
it  is!"  says  one  croaker;  " 't  seems  to  me  we  never 
shall  have  any  warm  weather  again." — "Well,  did  ever 
anybody  see  such  infernal  weather  as  this  is?"  says 
another  croaker ;  "  't  is  nothing  but  rain,  rain,  all  the 
time." — "  This  abominable  dust,"  says  another  croaker, 
"  is  enough  to  blind  one.  It  is  a  thundering  nuisance." — 
"  Here  's  this  east  wind  been  here  for  a  fortnight,"  says 
the  mercantile  croaker,  who  has  a  ship  just  ready  to  go 
to  sea.  The  wind  has,  in  fact,  been  "  out "  but  two 
days,  but  the  growler's  imagination  extends  the  time. 
"  Will  this  mud  ever  dry  up?"  asks  the  votary  of  fashion, 
as  she  looks  out  upon  the  sloppy  street  with  the  remem- 
brance of  a  dress  sent  home  three  days  before,  with  the 
probability  of  the  fashion  changing  before  she  has  a 
chance  to  wear  it  out.  The  splenetic  croak  as  they 
watch  the  vane  for  a  change  of  wind,  and  others  croak 
because  it  does  change.  The  world  is  full  of  croakers. 

We  have  wondered  if  there  is  anything  else  in  the 
animal  kingdom,  but  men  and  frogs,  that  croaks.  The 
croak  of  the  latter,  however,  is  his  song.  He  can't  help 
it.  He  feels  jolly  in  his  drink,  and  utters  himself — not 
very  pleasantly,  it  is  true  —  for  the  fun  of  the  thing. 
The  frog  doesn't  inveigh  against  Providence  for  send- 
ing bad  weather;  he  never  growls  at  the  east  wind, 
never  complains  at  the  heat  —  he  sings  the  same  song 
at  all  seasons.  Proving  this,  leaves  man  the  undivided 


404  HEATHEN  SYMPATHY. 

honor  of  being  the  only  croaker.  The  horse  goes 
on  uncomplaining  in  his  course,  not  croaking  a  bit 
about  his  fate  ;  Lion,  though  compelled  to  wait  tor  his 
dinner  till  five  o'clock,  never  croaks  about  it,  but  wags 
his  tail  and  waits ;  the  robin  sings  the  same  joyous 
song  in  an  east  wind  that  he  does  in  a  westerly  one ; 
all  with  an  instinctive  content  at  the  dealings  of  Provi- 
dence. The  flowers  bloom  happily,  and  never  fire  off 
their  pistils  in  petulance  or  anger;  the  trees  heed  not 
the  fair  or  the  foul,  but  keep  on,  weather  or  no ;  and 
the  humble  grass,  though  universally  regarded  as  green, 
keeps  right  on  growing,  true  to  the  allegiance  it  owes 
the  sun,  irrespective  of  little  outside  influences. 

What's  the  use  of  croaking?  Does  it  make  one 
hair  black  or  white  ?  Is  an  east  wind  shorn  of  a  single 
shiver  by  it?  Does  the  rain  cease  to  chill  because  of 
it?  Does  the  sun  relax  his  melting  beams  because  we 
don't  like  it?  No.  Then,  why  should  we  croak?  Ah, 
why? 


HEATHEN    SYMPATHY. 

TUB  Brahmin,  with  his  eyes  all  wet  with  tears, 

Stood  still  to  hear  a  Christian  damn  his  horse,  — 
I  mean  by  "  Christian  "  only  what  one  hears 

In  heathen  lands  applied  to  ours,  of  course !  — 
He  saw  the  trembling  creature  cringe  to  feel 

The  thong  applied  with  venom  to  his  flank, 
The  while  those  curses  poured  with  blistering  peal, 

And  marvelled  which  it  was  wherefrom  he  shrank. 
The  blows  continued,  and  the  storm  of  words 

Rained  round  the  quadruped  with  equal  might ; 
It  moved  the  Brahmin's  sympathetic  chords, 

Who  stretched  his  hand  to  stay  the  cruel  fight. 
"Look  here,"  quoth  he,  "you  cursed,  cursing  file, 
Your  conduct,  let  me  say,  is  cursed  vile  !  " 


WHITEWASHING.  405 

WHITEWASHING. 

SPRING  is  the  season  of  cleanliness,  —  the  sanatory 
sabbath,  where  people  whitewash  up  into  respectabil- 
ity of  appearance,  and  try  to  look  decent  for  a  year. 
Whitewashing  is  a  great  institution,  and  it  comes  to  a 
brush  with  other  domestic  institutions  about  the  sea- 
son when  the  flowers  open,  and  housewives  and  tulips 
blow  at  the  same  time.  It  is  well  to  own  a  brush  your- 
self, and  mix  your  own  whitewash  ;  then,  with  the  pale 
fluid  by  you,  you  can  get  up  mornings  and  apply  it  at 
your  leisure,  or  spend  the  evening  in  beautifying  and 
purifying  your  premises.  This  is  the  way  you  will  be 
likely  to  do,  if  you  are  an  economist.  Buy  your  brush, 
procure  your  lime,  slack  the  mysterious  mass  to  a 
creamy  fluid,  and  then  attempt  the  purification  of  your 
wall  overhead.  "  Don't  spatter  ! "  will  be  the  injunc- 
tion of  the  prudent  house-wife,  of  course;  but  heed  it 
not,  —  women  are  proverbial  for  their  caution,  —  lather 
away,  with  might  and  main,  and  she  will  leave  the  field. 
The  wall  is  dark  with  smoky  accumulations,  but,  thanks 
to  the  science  of  the  brush,  it  will  soon  be  made  spot- 
less. You  dip  boldly  into  the  wash,  and  the  first  dash 
at  the  wall  brings  a  drop  into  your  eye.  It  may  be  that 
some  petulant  expression  escapes  you  —  may-be  not.  A 
second  attempt  is  better.  You  mind  your  eye,  and  go 
along,  this  way  and  that  way.  There  is  a  struggle 
going  on  overhead  between  light  and  darkness,  as 
there  was  when  Lucifer,  the  Dark  Angel,  struggled 
with  Michael  on  the  plains  of  heaven,  and  the  light  is 
bound  to  succeed.  You  feel  encouraged,  as  you  see 
the  wall  wet  with  the  application,  knowing  that  the 
warm  air  will  render  it  very  pure  and  white.  You  feel 
dizzy  with  looking  up,  and  your  neck  aches,  and  your 


406  WHITEWASHING. 

sinews  are  sore  with  your  efforts  ;  but  persevere,  and 
the  crown  is  yours.  And  now  leave  the  wall  to  dry, 
with  the  reflection  that  you  have  saved  at  least  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  by  the  operation,  and  a  fancy  of  the 
satisfaction  youself  and  wife  will  feel  at  the  pleasant 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  premises  wrought 
by  your  exertions.  A  few  hours  afterwards,  you 
return  to  your  room.  There  is  a  cloud  on  your  wife's 
brow  as  dark  as  the  wall  before  it  was  whitewashed. 
You  are  minded  of  the  cause  by  a  significant  pointing 
to  the  wall  overhead,  and  the  carpet  below,  and  the 
furniture  around.  The  former  looks  like  an  enlarged 
map  of 'the  United  States,  including  Kansas  and  Cali- 
fornia, with  very  dark  prospects  for  Kansas  ;  the  carpet 
is  flecked  with  white  stars,  like  a  chart  demonstrative 
of  mundane  astronomy;  the  furniture  is  dotted  with 
endless  blotches  of  white,  as  if  it  had  been  struck  with 
a  sudden  snow-squall.  You  begin  to  get  it  through 
your  hair  what  it  is  that  has  caused  your  head  to  itch 
so  confoundedly  all  day.  You  have  been  limed.  But 
you  are  in  for  whitewashing,  and,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
late  amiable.  Gen.  Macbeth,  it  is  about  as  well  to  go 
ahead  as  to  go  back ;  so  you  vigorously  seize  the  brush 
again,  with  less  heart,  however,  than  at  first.  But  with 
less  confidence  come  more  pains,  and  fewer  drops 
spangle  the  floor,  and  the  map  disappears  from  the  wall. 
When  it  is  dry,  it  takes  a  new  guise.  It  is  white,  with 
here  and  there  a  shallow  pool,  with  a  dark  bottom. 
The  brush  is  again  applied.  Better  and  better.  At 
last,  after  a  week's  application,  a  good  deal  of  fretting, 
and  labor  enough  to  raise  a  two-story  barn,  the  wall  is 
completed,  and  the  brush  is  laid  aside,  for  some  other 
time ;  but  whether  that  time  will  ever  come  or  not,  de- 
pends upon  the  scarcity  of  whitewashes.  But  it  is  & 


PROSPECTIVE   SUMMER.  407 

triumph,  after  all,  to  look  at  the  milky  firmament  that 
spans  your  home,  and  feel  that  your  "  neat  and  cun- 
ning hand  "  laid  on  the  purity,  even  though  discolored 
dresses  and  soiled  carpets  mark  your  course,  as  the 
traces  of  violence  follow  the  sanguinary  brush  of  war. 


PROSPECTIVE   SUMMER. 

PASSED  the  boundary  dividing  spring  from  the  domain 
of  summer,  and,  upon  our  senses  gliding,  steals  the 
breath  of  the  new  comer  —  gentle  Deity  of  Flowers, 
in  whose  genial  warmth  outspringing,  from  a  myriad 
chosen  bowers,  floral  sweets  abroad  are  winging. 
Where  the  crystal  brov.k  is  brawling  through  the  sum- 
mer woodland  shadow,  and  the  bob-o'-link  is  calling 
from  his  home  within  the  meadow ;  where  the  dark 
ravines  are  dimly,  coolly  with  our  memory  pleading, 
and  remembered  shadows  grimly  through  our  heated 
minds  are  speeding;  where  the  tall  pines,  dark  and 
solemn,  murmur  constantly  their  story,  and  the  crag, 
in  mighty  column,  stands  in  monumental  glory ;  where 
the  sweet  birds'  songs  are  gushing  from  the  bushes  by 
the  river,  and  the  little  waves  are  rushing,  and  the 
leaves  with  music  quiver;  where  the  trout  in  cool,  still 
places  wait  the  tempting  bait  to  swallow ;  where  the 
winding  path  one  traces,  with  delighted  foot  to  follow; 
where  the  cascade  white  and  foaming  o'er  the  rocks  in 
glee  is  leaping,  and  the  lake  where  perch  are  roaming,  or 
big  pickerel  are  sleeping ;  where  kind  hearts  and  pleas- 
ant voices  all  combine  to  mark  the  hour,  where  the 
gentle  heart  rejoices  in  the  summer's  sovereign  power; 
—  all  stand  beckoning  to  us,  beckoning,  coaxing  us  to 
leave  the  town,  leave  our  books  and  money  reckoning, 


408  PROSPECTIVE   SUMMER. 

led  'mid  rurals  "up  and  down."  But  there  comes  a 
memory  speedy  of  fierce  flies  and  fierce  mosquitos,  for 
our  sacrifice  most  greedy,  putting  on  our  comfort  vetos ; 
of  long  walks  uncompensated,  thunder-showers  in  the 
mountains,  of  long  hours  with  ennui  freighted,  of  foul 
bugs  in  pleasant  fountains.  Thus  our  dreams  in  summer 
weathers  draw  us  from  the  city  torrid,  and  the  leaves 
which  memory  gathers  with  their  freshness  cool  our 
forehead. 


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HISTORICAL  AJTI>  SECRET  MEMOIRS  OF  TOT 

EMPRESS  JOSEPHIXB.  A  secret  and  truthful  history  of  one  of  the  most  remarkably 
Of  women,  uniting  all  the  value  of  absorbing  facts  with  that  of  the  most  exeitinf 
romance.  Translated  from  the  French  of  M'lle  Le  Normand,  by  JACOB  M.  How- 
>P»  Esq.  2  Tola,  in  one.  Cloth.  Price  $1  76. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  COURT  OP  MARIE  AISTTOI- 

SETTS.  An  instructive  work— one  of  the  most  intensely  interesting  ever  issued 
from  the  American  press — the  events  of  which  should  be  familiar  to  all.  Jty 
MADAME  CAMP  AW.  With  Biographical  Introduction  by  M.  Da  LAMABTISB.  f 
Toll,  in  one.  Cloth.  Price  $1  75. 

MEMOIRS  OP  THE  LIPE  OF  MARY,  QUEEIT  OF 

SCOTS.  Affording  a  complete  and  authentic  history  of  the  unfortunate  Mary,  with 
materials  and  letters  not  used  by  other  authors,  making  up  a  volume  of  rara  in- 
terest and  valat.  ByMiesBwam.  "With  portrait  on  tt««L  2  volt,  in  on*.  Cloth. 
Price  $1  7*. 


2  NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  QUEENS  or  FRANCE.    "Writ- 

ten  in  France,  carefully  compiled  from  researches  made  there,  commended  by 
the  press  generally,  and  published  from  the  Tenth  London  Edition.  It  la  a  truly 
valuable  -work  for  the  reader  and  student  of  history.  By  MRS.  FORBES  BUSH. 

2  Tols.  in  on*.    Cloth.    Price  $1  75. 

< 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  ANNE  BOLEYN, 

QCKEN  OF  HENRY  VIII.  In  the  records  of  biography  there  is  no  character  that 
more  forcibly  exemplifies  the  vanity  of  human  ambition,  or  more  thoroughly 
•nlists  the  attention  of  the  reader  than  this — the  Seventh  American,  and  front 
the  Third  London  Edition.  By  Miss  BBSOEB.  With  portrait  on  steel.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


HEROIC  WOMEN  OF  HISTORY.    Containing  the 

most  extraordinary  examples  of  female  courage  of  ancient  and  modern  times, 
and  set  before  the  wives,  sisters,  and  daughters  of  the  country,  in  the  hope  that 
It  may  make  them  even  more  renowned  for  resolution,  fortitude,  and  self-saeriflc* 
than  the  Spartan  females  of  old.  By  HEKRT  C.  WATSON.  With  Illustration*. 
Cloth.  $1  76. 


PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  HISTORY  OF  Louis 


oy,  EMPEROR  OF  THB  FRENCH.  An  impartial  view  of  the  public  and  privat* 
career  of  thii  extraordinary  man,  giving  full  information  in  regard  to  his  most 
distinguished  ministers,  generals,  relatives  and  favorites.  By  SAMUKL  M. 
SCHMUCEBR,  LL.  D.  With  portraits  on  Steel.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LIFE  AND  REIGN  OF  NICHOLAS  I.,  EMPEROB 

OF  RUSSIA.    The  only  complete  history  of  this  great  personage  that  has  appeared 
i       In  the  English  language,  and  furnishes  interesting  facts  in  connection  with  Rus- 
•lan  society  and  government  of  great  practical  value  to  the  attentive  reader.   By 
SAOTKL  M.  SCHMUCKER,  LL  D.    With  Illustrations.    Cloth.    $1  76. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

A  concise  and  condensed  narrative  of  Washington's  career,  especially  adapted  to 
the  popular  reader,  and  presented  as  the  best  matter  upon  this  immortal  theme  — 
one  especially  worthy  the  attention  and  admiration  of  every  American.  By 
.  SCHUUCKKR,  LL.  D.  With  Portrait  on  iteeL  Cloth.  91  76. 


NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS.  3 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON. 

Incidents  of  a  career  that  will  never  lose  its  singular  power  to  attract  and  in- 
struct, while  giving  impressive  lessons  of  the  brightest  elements  of  character, 
•urrounded  and  assailed  by  the  basest.  By  SAMUEL  M.  SCHMUCKBR,  LL.  D.  With 
Portrait  on  steel.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


LIFK  AND  TIMES  OF  THOMAS  JEFFERSON.    In 

which  the  anther  has  presented  both  the  merits  and  defects  of  this  great  repre- 
sentative hero  in  their  true  light,  and  has  studiously  avoided  indiscriminate 
praise  or  wholesale  censure.  By  SAMUEL  M.  SCHMDCKEE,  LL.  D.  With  Portrait. 
Cloth.  $1  75. 


LIFE  OF  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN.    Furnishing  a 

superior  and  comprehensive  record  of  this  celebrated  Statesman  and  Philoso- 
pher— rich  beyond  parallel  in  lessons  of  wisdom  for  every  age,  calling  and  con- 
dition in  life,  public  and  private.  By  0.  L.  HOLLBY.  With  Portrait  on  steel  and 
Illustrations  on  wood.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  LIFE  OF  DANIEL  "WEB- 

BTKR.  The  most  copious  and  attractive  collection  of  personal  memorials  concern* 
Ing  the  great  Statesman  that  has  hitherto  been  published,  and  by  one  whos« 
intimate  and  confidential  relations  with  him  afford  a  guarantee  for  their  authen- 
ticity. By  Gen.  S.  P.  LTMAN.  With  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  HENRY  CLAY.   An  impar- 

tial  biography,  presenting,  by  bold  and  simple  strokes  of  the  historic  pencil,  a 
portraiture  of  the  illustrious  theme  which  no  one  should  fail  to  read,  and  no 
library  be  without.  By  SAMUEL  M.  SCHMUCKBB,  LL.  D.  With  Portrait  on  steel. 
Cloth.  9.1  79. 

LIFE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICES  OF  STEPHEN  A. 

DOUGLAS.  A  true  and  faithful  exposition  of  the  leading  incidents  of  his  brilliant 
career  arranged  so  as  to  instruct  the  reader  and  produce  the  careful  study  which 
the  life  of  so  great  a  man  deserves.  By  H.  M.  FLINT.  With  Portrait  on 
Cloth.  (1  75. 


4  NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS. 

LITE  AND  PUBLIC  SERVICES  or  ABRAHAM 

COLS.  (In  both  the  English  and  German  languages.)  As  a  record  of  this  great 
man  it  la  a  most  desirable  work,  admirably  arranged  for  reference,  with  an 
index  over  each  page,  from  which  the  reader  can  familiarize  himself  with  th* 
•ontents  by  glancing  through  it.  By  FRA*K  CROSBY,  of  the  Philadelphia  B**. 
With  Portrait  on  steeL  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LIFE  OF  DANIEL  BOONE,  THE  GREAT  WESTERN 

HCXTER  ASD  Pionu.  Comprising  graphic  and  authentic  accounts  of  hi«  daria& 
thrilling  adventures,  wonderful  skill,  coolness  and  sagacity  under  the  most  ham- 
ardous  circumstances,  with  an  autobiography  dictated  by  himself-  By  CBCU.  B. 
HARTLXT.  With  Illustrations,  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LITE  OF  COLONEL  DAVTD  CROCKET,  THE  ORI* 

QI5AL  HTMORIST  AJTD  IRREPRESSIBLE^  BACKWOODS Jt/LV.  Showing  his  strong  will 
and  indomitable  spirit,  his  bear  hunting,  his  military  services,  his  career  in  Con- 
gress, and  his  triumphal  tour  through  the  States — written  by  himself;  to  which 
U  added  the  account  of  his  glorious  death  at  the  Alamo.  With  Illustration*. 
Cloth.  91  75. 

LIFE  OF  KIT  CARSON,  THE  GREAT  WESTERN 

HCXTER  AHD  GciDR,  An  exciting  rolnme  of  wild  and  romantic  exploits,  thrillinf 
adrentnres,  hair-breadth  escapes,  daring  coolness,  moral  and  physical  courage, 
and  invaluable  services — such  as  rarely  transpire  in  the  history  of  th*  wor'4, 
By  CHA*LBS  BtTRDrrr.  With  Ulustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LIFE  OF  CAPTAIN  JOHN  SMITH,  THE  FOUXDEB 

09  VIROIHIA.  The  adventures  contained  herein  serve  to  denote  the  more  nobl* 
and  daring  events  of  a  period  distinguished  by  its  spirit,  its  courage,  and  its  pas- 
sion, and  challenges  the  attention  of  the  American  people.  By  W.  GILXOU 
With  Ulustrations.  Price  $1  75. 


LITE  OF   GENERAL  FRANCIS  MARION,  THB 

CKLKBaATK)  P'  -TiaA*  HERO  OP  TH«  RKVOLCTIO».  This  was  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  _  ;a  who  J.TTUOC  ca  '.i?  rrand  theatre  of  war  during  the  times  that 
"tried  men's  001!%"  and  his  bnui^ut  career  has  scarcely  a  parallel  in  taMOfj. 
By  Cicu.  B.  Rt&riBT.  With  niastrationa.  ClotA.  ••)!  75. 


NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS.  5 

LEFE  OP  GEXERAL  AXDREW  JACKSON,  THE 

CELEBRATED  PATRIOT  AND  STATESMAN.  The  character  here  ghowu  as  firm  in  will, 
clear  in  judgment,  rapid  in  decision  and  decidedly  pronounced,  sprung  from  com- 
parative obscurity  to  the  highest  gift  within  the  power  of  the  American  people, 
and  is  prolific  in  interest  By  ALEXANDER  WALKER.  $1  75. 

LIFE  AXD  TIMES  OF  GENERAL  SAM  HOUSTON,' 

THE  HUNTER,  PATRIOT,  AND  STATESMAN.  It  reminds  one  of  the  story  of  Romulus— 
who  was  nurtured  by  the  beasts  of  the  forest  till  he  planted  the  foundations  of  a 
mighty  empire  —  and  stands  alone  as  an  authentic  memoir.  With  Maps,  Portrait, 
and  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LIVES  OF  THE  THREE  MRS.   JUDSOXS,  THE 

CELEBRATED  FEMALB  MISSIONARIES.  The  domestic  lives  and  individual  labors  of 
these  three  bright  stars  in  the  galaxy  of  American  heroines,  who  in  ministering 
to  the  souls  of  heathens,  experienced  much  of  persecution.  By  CECIL  B.  HARTLEY: 
With  steel  Portrait*.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

LIFE  OF  ELISHA  KEXT  KAXE,  AXD  OF  OTHER 

DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAS  EXPLORERS.  A  narrative  of  the  discoverers  who  pos- 
sess the  strongest  hold  upon  public  interest  and  attention,  and  one  of  the  few 
deeply  interesting  volumes  of  distinguished  Americans  of  this  class.  By  SAMITE* 
M.  SCHMUCKER,  LL.  D.  With  Portrait  on  steel.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


THE  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES   OF 

CCSHMAX,  THE  CELEBRATED  UNION  Spr  AND  SCOUT.  Stirring  details  from  the  lipa 
of  the  subject  herself,  whose  courage,  heroism,  and  devotion  to  the  old  flag,  en- 
deared her  to  the  Army  of  the  Southwest.  By  F.  L.  SARMIENTO,  Esq.,  Member 
of  the  Philadelphia  Bar.  With  Portrait  on  steel  and  Illustrations  on  wood, 
Cloth.  $1  75. 


JEFFERSOX  DAVIS  AXD  STOXEWALL  JACKSOX: 

THB  LIP«  AXD  PUBLIC  SERVICES  OF  EACH.  Truths  from  the  lives  of  these  men, 
fcoth  of  whom  served  their  country  before  the  war,  and  afterwards  threw  them- 
selves into  the  cause  of  the  South  with  unbounded  zeal  —  affording  valuable  hi»» 
.oric  facts  for  all,  North  and  South.  With  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  76. 


<J  NEW  AITD  LATE  BOOKS. 

CORSICA,  AND  THE  EARLY  LlFE  OF  KAPOLBO3T. 

Delicately  drawn  idyllic  descriptions  of  the  Island,  yielding  new  light  to  political 
history,  exciting  much  attention  in  Germany  and  England,  and  altog«ther  making 
a  book  of  rare  character  and  value.  Translated  by  Hon.  E.  JOT  MORRIS.  With 
Portrait  on  steel.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


THE  HORSE  AND  HIS  DISEASES:  EMBRACING 

HIS  HlSTORT  AXD  VARIETIES,  BREEDISO  AXD  MANAGEMENT,  ASD  VlCES.      A  splendid, 

complete,  and  reliable  book — the  work  of  more  than  fifteen  years'  careful  study — 
pointing  out  diseases  accurately,  and  recommending  remedies  that  have  stood  th« 
test  of  actual  trial.  To  which  is  added  "RARET'S  METHOD  OP  TRAILING  HORSES." 
By  ROBERT  JEJIXIJIQB,  V.  S.  With  nearly  one  hundred  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $175. 


SHEEP,  SWINE,  AND  POULTRY.    Enumerating 

the'.r  varieties  and  histories ;  the  best  modes  of  breeding,  feeding,  and  managing ; 
the  diseases  to  which  they  are  subject ;  the  best  remedies — and  offering  the  best 
practical  treatise  of  its  kind  now  published.  By  ROBERT  JEXXISGS,  V.  S.  With 
numerous  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

CATJTLE  AND  THEIR  DISEASES.     Giving  their 

history  and  breeds,  crossing  and  breeding,  feeding  and  management ;  with  tha 
diseases  to  which  they  are  subject,  and  the  remedies  best  adapted  to  their  cure; 
to  which  is  added  a  list  of  remedies  used  in  treating  cattle.  By  ROBEBT  JB»- 
xiiias,  V.  S.  With  numerous  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

HORSE  TRAINING  MADE  EASY.     A  new  and 

practical  system  of  Teaching  and  Educating  the  Horse,  including  whip  training 
»nd  thorough  instructions  in  regard  to  shoeing — full  of  information  of  a  useful 
and  well-tested  character.  By  ROBERT  JESXINOS,  Y.  S.  With  numerous  Illus- 
trations. Cloth.  $1  25. 

600  RECEIPTS  WORTH  THEIR  WEIGHT  IN  GOLD. 

An  unequalled  variety  in  kind,  the  collection  and  testing  of  which  have  extended 
\krongh  a  period  of  thirty  years — a  number  of  them  having  never  before  appeared 
In  print,  while  all  are  simple,  plain,  and  highly  meritorious.  By  JOB.V  MA»- 
QVA.RT,  of  Lebanon,  Pa.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS.  7 

500    EMPLOYMENTS    ADAPTED    TO    WOMEN-. 

Throwing  open  to  womankind  productive  fields  of  labor  everywhere,  and  afford- 
tag  full  opportunity  to  select  employments  best  adapted  to  their  tastes — all  the 
result  of  over  three  years'  constant  care  and  investigation.  By  Miss  VIBOUTIA 
Passr.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


The  simplicity  of  its  instructions,  the  comprehensiveness  of  its  subject,  and  the 
accuracy  of  its  details,  together  with  its  perfect  arrangement,  conciseness,  attrac- 
tiveness and  cheapness  make  it  the  most  desirable  of  all  legal  hand-books.  By 
FEAXK  CROSBY,  Esq.  Thoroughly  revised  to  date  by  S.  J.  YASDEKSLOOT,  Esq. 
60S  pp.  Law  Style.  $2  00. 

THE    FAMILY    DOCTOR.     Intended  to  guard 

against  diseases  in  the  family;  to  furnish  the  proper  treatment  for  the  sick ;  to 
impart  knowledge  in  regard  to  medicines,  herbs,  and  plants  ;  to  show  how  to  pre- 
serve a  sound  body  and  mind,  and  written  in  plain  language,  free  from  medical 
terms.  By  Prof.  HENBT  TATLOR,  M.  D.  Profusely  Illustrated.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

THE  AMERICAN  PRACTICAL  COOKERY  BOOK. 

A  faithful  and  highly  useful  guide,  whose  directions  all  can  safely  foll»w,  making 
housekeeping  easy,  pleasant,  and  economical  in  all  its  departments,  and  based 
upon  the  personal  test,  throughout,  of  an  intelligent  practical  housekeeper.  Illus- 
trated with  Fifty  Engravings.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

MODERN  COOKERY  IN  ALL  ITS  BRANCHES.    De- 

signed  to  interest  and  benefit  housekeepers  everywhere  by  its  plain  and  simple 
instructions  in  regard  to  the  judicious  preparation  of  food,  and  altogether  a  work 
of  superior  merit.  By  Miss  ELIZA  AGIOS.  Carefully  revise*  cy  Mrs.  SAUAH  /. 
HAI.K.  With  many  Illustrations  and  a  copious  Index.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

THIRTY  YEARS  IN  THE  ARCTIC  REGIONS.    The 

graphic  narrative  of  Sir  John  Franklin,  the  most  celebrated  of  Arctic  Travellers, 
In  which  Sir  John  tells  his  own  story — unsurpassed  for  intense  and  all-absorbing 
interest — sketching  his  three  expeditions,  and  that  part  of  the  fourth  n»* 
shrouded  in  mystery  to  the  world.  Cloth.  $1  15. 


8  NEW  AND  LATE  BOOKS. 

EXPLORATIONS    AND    DISCOVERIES 

FOUR  YEARS'  WANDERINGS  IN  THE  WILDS  of  SOUTHWESTERN  AFRICA.  Important 
and  exciting  experiences,  full  of  wild  adventure  and  instructive  facts,  which 
seem  to  possess  a  mysterious  charm  for  every  mind,  and  in  which  the  spirit  01 
intelligent  and  adventurous  curiosity  is  everywhere  prominent.  By  CHA&LJB 
JOHN  ANDERSON.  With  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 
/ 

LIVINGSTONE'S  TRAVELS  AND  EESEARCHES  IN 

SOUTH  AFRICA.  Given  in  the  pleasing  language  of  Dr.  Livingstone,  and  rich  in  the 
personal  adventures  and  hair-breadth  escapes  of  that  most  indefatigable  disco- 
verer and  interesting  Christian  gentleman — making  a  work  of  special  value.  By 
DAVID  LIVINGSTONE,  LL.  D.,  D.  C.  S.  Profusely  Illustrated.  Cloth.  $1  76. 


TRAVELS  AND  DISCOVERIES  IN  ^"ORTH  AND 

CENTRAL  AFRICA.  Recounting  an  expedition  undertaken  under  the  auspices  01 
H.  B.  M.'s  Government,  exhibiting  the  most  remarkable  courage,  perseverance, 
presence  of  mind,  and  contempt  of  danger  and  death,  and  immensely  important 
as  a  work  of  information.  By  HBNRT  BARTH,  Ph.  D.,  D.  C.  L.,  etc.  With  Illus- 
trations. Cloth.  $1  75. 

ELLIS'  THREE  VISITS  TO  MADAGASCAR.  "Writ- 

ten  in  Madagascar,  while  on  a  visit  to  the  queen  and  people,  in  which  is  carefully 
described  the  singularly  beautiful  country  and  the  manners  and  customs  of  its 
people,  and  from  whith  an  unusual  amount  of  information  is  obtainable.  By  Bsv. 
WILLIAM  ELLI«,  F.  H.  S.  Profusely  Illustrated.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

ORIENTAL  AND  WESTERN  SIBERIA.  A  Stir- 
ring narrative  wf  seven  years'  explorations  In  Siberia,  Mongolia,  the  Xirghes' 
Steppes,  Chinese  Tartary,  and  part  of  Central  Asia,  revealing  extraordinary  facts, 
showing  much  of  hunger,  thirst,  and  perilous  adventure,  and  forming  a  work  ol 
rare  attractiveness  for  every  reader.  By  THOMAS  WILLIAM  ATKINSON.  With 
numerous  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 

HUNTING  SCENES  IN  THE  WILDS  OF  AFRICA. 

Thrilling  adventures  of  daring  hunters — Cummings,  Harris,  and  others — amonc 
the  Lions,  Elephants,  Giraffes,  Buffaloes,  and  other  animals — than  which  few,  U 
any  works,  are  more  exciting.  With  numerous  Illustrations.  Cloth.  $1  75. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR 


41975 

BEctnOMJRJT 


OLJ&N 


101977 
\  1 1977 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2817  .K74  1868 

y 


L  009  598  167  6 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAC  LITY 


AA    001  224  425  7 


